


Learning to Live

by msfeuille



Series: Lessons Learned (the Laura Trevelyan series) [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anxiety, Aquaphobia, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscarriage (Mentioned), Non-Explicit Sex, Open Relationships, Physical Disability, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Trespasser, Pregnancy, Qunlat, Spoilers, Vomiting, ignores Sten and Alistair canon established in the comics, isabela makes the best relationship counsellor, not explicit but still steamy, only uses video game canon, qunari fangirl part II, teagan is the fall guy here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 07:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12700602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msfeuille/pseuds/msfeuille
Summary: It's been three months since the Exalted Council; three months since Laura Trevelyan disbanded the Inquisition rather than see it corrupted by outside influence.She's married. They have a dog called Rabbit. But a dear friend betrayed her and she feels crippled: by her guilt, her hurt, her injury. She is not doing well.And yet the frustrated, barren Queen Warden of Ferelden has another plan: for Laura to rescue her old Qunari ally from Ben-Hassrath re-educators before another war breaks out.





	1. Denerim

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first part of this series before playing Trespasser; once I did, I knew I wanted to write more to fold the story in with canon.
> 
> Here's the result: I wasn't necessarily prepared for the insistently steamy talk of threesomes and moresomes, but what can you do? Isabela has a thing for video game protagonists.
> 
> A note on Teagan: I actually quite liked him in Dragon Age: Origins, though I was completely puzzled by the fact that the game didn't seem to realise how hard it was shipping Teagan and Isolde. I'm irritated as heck at Trespasser turning him into the Stereotypical Whinging Politician, so consider this my projection of that character arc.

Laura woke in a panicked heartbeat in an unfamiliar bed, sticky eyes and shaking hands – 

_Hand_.

She opened her eyes; the canopy was dimly lit by firelight but she could make out glinting gold embroidery of leaves and branches. Birds in song.

The bed shifted, and Laura rolled onto her side to let the dog burrow under the blankets. She remembered, patchy and slow. They were in Denerim. It was winter. It had been three months. She wasn’t in pain anymore. Cullen, her husband, lay behind her. They had a dog.

They were in Denerim on the hospitality of Queen Fuchsia Cousland Theirin and things were okay. Laura was fine.

The dog was too large and heavy and licked her face with sour breath, and she was on her right side, her hand trapped. She was choking.

Cullen twisted in bed and sat up, so she swallowed her breaths down before he could hear them. In the gentle, warm light, he looked lovelier than ever; she gazed at his messy hair and gritty eyes and felt her heart swell. 

“Nightmare?” he asked softly. Knowingly.

“The dog jumped on me.” She pulled her arm out from under her and elbowed the dog in the launch to prove her point and it panted at her, its tongue lolling.

“He’s just eager to see you,” Cullen said, smoothing hair back from her forehead. “Is it morning?”

Laura tore her gaze from Cullen’s bare shoulders and squinted at the heavy drapes at the window. “The morning fire’s lit, but it’s still dark.”

He yawned, gracelessly, holding the back of his hand to his mouth. “Back to sleep?”

She would not find sleep again. She shook her head, kissed his cheek and his mouth, breathing in the smell of him. “You sleep. I’m going to go find some trouble.”

He grimaced. “Maker, I hope you’re joking.”

“We’ll see,” she said, somehow managing a smile, and wriggled out from the bed. As soon as it was clear she was getting up, the dog rolled over to let her escape and ended up nestled against Cullen’s side. It probably planned the whole thing.

 

*

 

Their apartments in the Royal Palace encompassed their bedroom, a second bedroom that lay empty and cold, a washcloset, a reception room and an expansive balcony that overlooked the Denerim nobility’s estates. Each room displayed tapestries of Fereldan bannorns as if trying to convince her to move there. None of it came close to the sumptuous estates of Orlais, but Laura counted that against Orlais, rather than an indictment of Ferelden itself.

She pulled the bedroom door shut and stepped into her boots where they waited by the fireplace. It had taken her hours – time she knew she could have saved by asking Cullen for help – but she had tied them up at the perfect fit to slide them on securely, and toe them off at the end of the day. She hadn’t had to undo the laces for over a week.

Her tunic of blue silk brocade was more difficult to wrangle, but she was practiced by now, and more importantly she was stubborn. She managed. She had chosen this tunic partly for the smooth ease of its fastenings, but also its length. No one would notice her leggings were the thick cotton any self-respecting Ostwick noble would wear to bed.

Her belt defeated her so she stuck one dagger in the right boot rather than go unarmed. Her hair had tried to escape from the tight, complex braid she had begged from Josephine on the pretext of sisterly bonding; she twisted in a few glittering clusters of sapphires and topaz set in shining silver to hold down her hair and hide the worst of the blonde frizz.

She looped Dorian’s sending crystal over her head and tucked it under her collar, and then she picked up the polished copper mirror that stood on the fireplace mantle and placed it face-down. It rattled awkwardly but did not fall.

She did not need to see herself. She did not like mirrors much anymore: not since the Exalted Council. 

She stood by the crackling fire for several long breaths. Sweat prickled at her neck, her armpits and the small of her back. She was exhausted and it wasn’t even fully morning.

It was so tempting to blame it on her arm, on the difficulties of living with one hand, but she knew deep down that wasn’t the case. It didn’t matter how practiced she became at living one-handed. Everything was exhausting and there would be no end to it.

She straightened her shoulders and left the apartments while the Royal Palace woke up around her.

 

*

 

There was a lot Laura would never understand about Ferelden: the obsession with dogs, first and foremost, but also the noise and informality. She didn’t doubt that people like Teagan would spit fire if they heard her describing them so, but she knew Ostwick and she had begrudgingly become an expert in the Orlesian game. Fereldan nobility showed their hands, their feelings and their motives, all too quickly.

So when Laura found her way to the Great Hall, she knew exactly what the gathering group of breakfasting nobles thought of her: Teyrn Fergus Cousland, Fuchsia’s elder brother whom Laura had yet to even meet, raised a flagon to toast her arrival and prompted cheers from the lesser nobles surrounding him; Teagan winced and looked away, deep in conversation with Josephine – who glittered gold and bright despite the early hour – and his retinue.

Teagan, it seemed, had not yet forgiven her for the Exalted Council.

Rather than servants bringing food to the guests, there was maintained a heaving table of breakfast fare at the side of the hall. Laura knew she was expected to fetch it herself. She agreed with it in principle but struggled once she had a plate of meat and bread and a metal flagon of watered wine to carry to her seat. Buffets were a two-handed affair.

She could feel people’s attention on her, a prickle at the back of her neck. She could not show weakness. She could not levitate the damn plate. A warming blush started to creep across her face.

“Excuse me, Your Worship,” a young girl said with a slight lisp. Laura tried, and failed, not to startle, but gave her a smile.

“Hello,” she said, and bowed. The girl giggled behind her hand, and suddenly Laura had it: the blue eyes, the heart-shaped face, the dimple. She had her father’s dark hair but her aunt’s impish spirit.

“Please may I carry your breakfast for you?” she asked with an awkward curtsey.

“I would be honoured, Miss Cousland,” Laura said, and let her pick up the plate and cup, as if Laura were giving her the condescension rather than the other way round.

The girl’s eyes widened. “But I haven’t introduced myself yet. How do you know who I am?”

Laura guided her back towards her father with a light touch. “You have your Auntie’s eyes.”

Teyrn Cousland stood up and pulled out a seat for her as they approached. “Your Worship. We hadn’t met formally, but –”

“Papa,” his daughter crowed, “she knew who I was without me saying!”

Cousland laughed and ruffled her hair. “I told you she was smart like you. Now go on, Nora. You have your studies to get to.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Nora Cousland,” Laura said very seriously.

“You too,” she squeaked, and ran off towards a group of children playing quietly by the fireplace. Laura watched her barrel into a dark-haired boy her age – nine or ten at the most. Then her attention was overtaken by Cousland and his banns, introductions and _Your Worships_ and so many names Laura had to fall back on the memory tricks Leliana had taught her back at Skyhold.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan, it’s an honour to have you in Ferelden properly,” Cousland said heartily.

She felt her smile slip. Any player of the Game would say such a thing to draw attention to the illegitimacy of their army inhabiting Haven. “I am Inquisitor no longer, your Lordship, but I am still honoured.”

There was a reply Josephine could be proud of. Laura caught her eye from across the room and Josephine quirked her perfectly coiffed head, a question or a check, perhaps. To see if Laura needed rescuing. Because she always thought that Laura needed rescuing.

Laura gave a tight shake of her head and forced her gaze back to Cousland.

“Wardens are still Wardens when there is no Blight,” Cousland said with an expansive wave of his hand. “The mantle isn’t one you can shed so easily.”

His words carried strong and clear, and from Laura’s vantage point she saw Teagan frown. Maybe Cousland didn’t care about Teagan’s opinion, but Laura could not afford his disapproval. Before Josephine could distract Teagan, she spoke and made sure her voice would carry just far enough.

“Wardens have a purpose even in peace. Vigilance. I cannot say the same for an Inquisitor.” She looked at Nora and smiled before Cousland could reply. “Your daughter’s purpose this morning was to do you fine credit, your Lordship. She is a lovely child.”

It was the right gambit: Cousland, it seemed, could talk about his family at length. Laura stifled the pang of envy in her heart and ignored the cool gaze of her critics as Josephine ushered them out of the Great Hall.

 

*

 

She gave Cousland the slip later that morning by suggesting a tour of the libraries, a suggestion at which he grimaced and begged forgiveness – his troops needed him, if she was gracious enough to let him.

She waved him off, went to the library, found a scribe’s drab woollen cloak and escaped the Royal Palace as anonymously as she could manage. She set out to explore Denerim on foot. Before exploring Val Royeaux like this she had half-imagined even the slums to have shining, white-spackled walls and silken ribbons trimming their eaves. But Orlesian and Fereldan slums turned out to be very similar. Denerim was cool and damp and smelled of horse manure and wet dog, rather than horse manure and cheap perfume, but other than that, things were the same.

For a moment she remembered sitting in the Herald’s Rest with the Bull and listening to him talk about the poor and the workers, and the constancy of their lives across Thedas. It was truer than she had given him credit for at the time.

She bought a coiled sweet bun from a street vendor, ignoring the sympathetic look he gave her stump, and taking the opportunity of his distraction to sneak a few extra gold coins into his moneybox. Currants and butter slid down the side of her hand as she tried to eat on the move, so instead she sat on a low wall across from the Market Chantry and savoured the warmth in her stomach.

“Sometimes I can’t believe how well we’ve rebuilt. Other times all I can see are reminders of all the people who died.”

Fuchsia vaulted onto the wall beside her. She was dressed modestly in dark wool and worn cotton. Her shoes would have given her status away with their fine tailoring, were it not for mud caked onto the leather. Her hair streamed loose behind her, gold and glimmering and not frizzy at all. She tucked it behind her ear and eyed Laura’s pastry with a hungry eye.

Laura took another bite and said nothing. She chewed as Fuchsia sighed longingly, and swallowed, and licked her fingers clean.

“Do you want to split another one with me?” Fuchsia asked.

“No,” Laura said, and bit back her smile when Fuchsia laughed. She had not forgotten the Queen’s sense of humour.

She listened as Fuchsia sobered and spoke quietly of the Blight, of Chantry Mothers cut down and burning skies and screaming children lost in the panicked evacuation.

Sitting in the fine, drizzling rain and listening to the hubbub of a calm market, Laura should have struggled to imagine the destruction, but she didn’t. She closed her eyes and saw blood and fire and dark, glowing red.

“Is this why you invited me here?” she asked. “To fill my mind with your painful history?”

“To inspire you to help me stop that history from repeating itself,” she said, deadly serious. “To stop a war.”

 

*

 

It weighed heavily as she returned to her apartments, Fuchsia’s explanation, and her request, echoing in her thoughts. She sat by the fire and absently patted the dog’s head when it came over to her to investigate.

“You’re back,” Cullen said softly as he came in from the bedroom. His hair was immaculate, his clothes pressed; he must have been writing letters at the desk rather than lazing through the afternoon. He knelt in front of her and picked up her hand, cradling it between his. “And you have found trouble, by the looks of it.”

The task stretched out in front of her, huge and impossible and infinitely more appealing than sitting in Denerim fielding Fereldan nobles.

“I may have found some trouble,” she said, still staring at the fire, and she told him of Fuchsia’s request. Of her missing Qunari friend, Ataashashaad, who had begrudgingly offered an alliance with the Inquisition. Of Fuchsia’s certainty that he must have known about the Viddasala’s activities, and that he would have tried to stop her. That if he tried he would succeed, but he obviously did not so had to be in serious trouble.

“She has a theory he’s been imprisoned by his own people, and she wants to rescue him.”

Cullen sat down by her feet; the dog rolled onto its back in an obvious ploy, lolling its tongue at Laura.

“She’s looking to start a war, if the Queen of Ferelden were found behind their borders on such a mission.” He paused, frozen in place. “But it wouldn’t be her.”

“I am no one’s agent, with no political ties now. It wouldn’t be a scandal the way it would be if it were her.”

“You have suffered a grievous injury,” Cullen said quietly, his voice rough and firm.

“If Ataashashaad is being held captive, freeing him would mean he could help us avoid war. His voice could help keep this peace.”

“You said you wanted to get away from this – this problem-solving on behalf of others.” Cullen frowned at the dog. He wouldn’t meet Laura’s eyes.

“I cannot ignore a crisis that I could help prevent,” Laura replied, perhaps sharper than she meant to.

“You are my _wife_ ,” Cullen snapped.

The air felt suddenly cold and the dog crept onto his stomach, ears flattened to its head. Laura pulled her hand away from him. “Meaning what?”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. A muscle in his jaw ticked and he blew out a breath through his nose. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Meaning I have sworn to love and protect you for all of our days. And that includes protecting you from the Queen-Warden’s insane schemes. Or your own over-involved sense of duty.”

Laura stood up. Her head felt far away from herself. Cullen watched her from his knees, eyes plaintive, his brows drawn together in irritation.

“To tell me I need saving from myself is patronising in the extreme,” she said. Her mouth felt numb but she continued, “I have survived the very worst this world could summon. I will endure, no matter how weak you think I am.”

Cullen’s mouth fell open. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

“I will help her.” The cold fear and anger inside her stomach twisted. She reached out and brushed her thumb over his cheek, feeling the warm skin, the sharp stubble too pale and short to see except by glowing firelight. “You cannot stop me.”

He swallowed hard. “Then I will come with you.”

Laura’s heart thudded in her chest. “I don’t understand.”

Cullen pushed to his feet, giving a short, wry laugh. “I have no forces that require my presence. No army to command while you travel. I swore to protect you and so I will, as your ally. Not as your adversary or your nagging spouse."

“No,” Laura said before she could even consider it; the force of her own voice took her by surprise. “Absolutely not.”

His hands touched butterfly-light on her neck and jaw. He was still smirking. “Shall we have our argument in reverse, now? Or shall we plan our journey?”

Her chest tightened the way it had when she was trapped in bed. She could not breathe. She could not let Cullen see her like this. She fled.

He called out after her but she did not look back.

 

*

 

The rookery was large and dim and bitterly cold: the shutters were still flung open to the night sky and the torches guttered in the wind.

Laura sat by one of the empty birdcages and thought of Leliana – Divine Victoria, now. Of what she might say. She always had a critique to offer of Laura’s latest irrational behaviour. Probably a comment about being cruel to her loved ones. Again. Cole was always kinder, and Laura suspected that was because he didn’t understand the way Leliana did. He saw too much of Laura’s heart and so he forgave Laura her cruelty.

Laura knew that the fear and panic inside her were no excuse for pushing her friends away. She did not deserve his forgiveness.

She curled her knees to her chest, suddenly and desperately lonely. She could not go to Josephine: she could not find out about Fuchsia’s politically insane plan. Varric had already left for Kirkwall, and Sera for destinations unknown. Dorian had returned to Minrathous months ago, the very night Laura had disbanded the Inquisition, and Cassandra had remained in Val Royeaux.

Laura would never begrudge Cole finding his place, but by a travelling minstrel’s side meant they had both gone north a week previous. Vivienne, Thom, Harding, the Bull: they all had other lives, other responsibilities. 

She thought, for one razor-edged moment, about Solas – about Fen’harel – and then pushed all of it aside. They all left her in the end.

Past the shadowy cages and stone staircase, the lower door opened and shut, illuminating the guano-stained rafters for a brief moment. Laura considered her position, the potential gossip, and huddled further into the corner so no one could notice her. She was good at hiding, even on battlefields: the shadows here were generous in comparison.

She watched as King Alistair Theirin made his half-stumbling way to one of the caged birds. He bumped into the cage, sending the row of ravens squawking in affront.

“You’d think someone would like a torch,” he muttered. “Sorry. Uh, not that you can understand me. You’re a bird. But you know that! Uh, here.”

He deftly tied a sealed scroll to one irritated bird’s leg. It nipped his fingers and he hissed between his teeth.

“I know you like her better than me, but she’s busy.”

Another angry caw.

“Boy troubles. And no, wipe that smirk off your beak, it’s not me. Rutherford. You’d like him.” Pause. “Would you? Who do you like, other than my wife, anyway? Should I feed you like she does?”

He released the raven and watched it fly west. Southwest. It was an expensive, hardy breed meant for long distances: bound for Val Royeaux, then.

If she hadn’t felt so alone she would have stayed in her perfect hiding place. But the ache in her chest made her lean forward into the light and speak.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered, and he stumbled into the other set of cages. The air filled with a cacophony of outrage.

“Sweet Andraste,” he said, and blew out a breath. “I thought you were an assassin.”

“An assassin who says hello first?” she asked without thinking. It wouldn’t do to disagree with monarchy but apparently she wanted to make things even worse for herself.

He laughed. “You’d be surprised. Maker’s breath, come on out of there before my wife’s birds leave their mark on you.”

She unfolded to her feet and stepped into the meagre light. It was not so dark she couldn’t see the way his gaze flicked down to her missing arm.

He clapped his hands together suddenly. “I see. I’m the intervention.”

She waited. It seemed the appropriate response.

“My wife and your husband are in conference,” he continued, gesturing at the floor to the castle below. “She sent me off to get the letter out to Bull, but I think I was supposed to find you here too.”

“Letter to the Bull?”

Alistair raised one eyebrow. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know? Of course you do, you just asked. But we all thought you didn’t want to be a part of the plan, so…”

Laura felt her face flush hot. “She asked _me_. Not Cullen.”

“The couple that adventures together, stays together. What are you afraid of?”

Laura did not know. She could not admit this to the King. She shrugged, despite its inelegance.

He sighed, and tugged her over to one of the low benches that lined the eastern wall. From there, Laura had a perfect view of Denerim as it twinkled in the night.

“I’m no good at this stuff, you know,” he said, gazing out of the window. “It’s one reason Teagan and I have had a bit of a falling out. One of many. I cart all the mages to his castle, they get taken over by Tevinter cultists, he blames me, I won’t hold his hand while he twists his goatee in a bunch.”

“I don’t need hand-holding,” she interjected, her voice hard.

“I’ll say,” he replied, though Laura could not fathom his meaning. “But that begs the question, what was Ferelden’s second-most ruggedly handsome ex-Templar doing crying over my best upholstery?”

Laura leapt to her feet. “He was crying?”

“No!” Alistair tugged her back down. “No. Just very…passionate. Heated. Sincere.”

“I do love him,” she said softly.

“But you don’t want him to go with you.”

She didn’t respond: she didn’t need to. She stared out at Denerim and thought about the fires and destruction it had seen. “Why make Teagan your ambassador if he’s not an ally of yours?”

“As if he’d have let anyone else go,” he muttered. “I didn’t decide. The Landsmeet did, mostly to get him out of the way. No one likes how he handled things with Isolde. Handled Isolde, I should say.”

There was a weight of history there but it was history Laura did not care to hear. “What did you want the Inquisition to do?”

He grimaced. “Are you sure you want to get into this?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“I don’t think it really makes a difference.” He glanced down at a gold ring that graced one calloused finger. “People are better symbols than things are. Organisations. You’re still the Inquisition and that’s not changed.”

“I have no army and no cause.” Those facts should not have brought Laura to tears but she felt perilously close.

“If you got a new cause, you don’t think an army would come running at the clap of your hands – uh. The click of your fingers?”

She felt herself blush and she didn’t really know why. “I met Fuchsia’s niece today.”

“Eleanora is absolutely terrifying,” he announced gravely. “She’ll make an even more terrifying Teyrna.”

“How come,” Laura started, and swallowed her question with a shocked shame at herself. But it was too late: Alistair smiled sadly as if he knew what she had almost asked.

“Can you keep a secret?” he whispered. When she nodded, his mouth twisted bitterly, and he added, “We’ve tried. Been trying for ten years. Got as far as making her sick as a dog before she’d lose it every time. But we shouldn’t be surprised. Wardens don’t. Can’t. So we’ve read, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, and reached out. He didn’t react when she touched his arm.

“Ah, well,” he said. “It’s only the fate of my entire Kingdom. It’s not like there’s any particular Arls with delusions of grandeur and handy heirs kicking around. Forget about it. I came here to help you!”

None of her nonsense was as important as what they faced. As what Cullen faced every day to keep free of his past. She would be strong enough to face her fear, whatever it was she was afraid Cullen would see.

Alistair was watching her with sad eyes but a kind smile. “You look like you want to go on a mission.”

She nodded. “But not alone.”

He grinned. “It can be your honeymoon!”


	2. Kirkwall

The ship creaked with the wind and the sea, and Laura’s stomach swooped along with it. They had been at sea for a week on a small, half-rotted trawler that Fuchsia claimed gave guaranteed anonymity, but mostly just turned Laura’s stomach with the smell.

A cry went up abovedeck: _Land ho! City of Chains!_

“You look like you’re going to throw up again, boss,” the Bull said from where he lay sprawled across two bunks.

“Don’t talk about it. I don’t want to even think about it,” she said into the crook of her elbow. If she kept her arm slung over her face the smell wasn’t so bad.

It wasn’t terrible, this journey, except that Laura hated boats, hated travelling by water: the little dinghy they’d taken out to the dragon’s island off the Storm Coast had almost finished her off with sheer panic. It was easier to play it off as seasickness. Better for everyone that they not see her weakness.

A knock at the door, and one of the grizzled Fereldan sailors called through: “Message from Mister Stanton, ma’am, you’re to disembark shortly.”

It had taken a few weeks for the Bull to join them in Denerim, during which Laura, Cullen and Fuchsia made a plan. They would gather supplies in Kirkwall and transfer to a ship that would raise fewer eyebrows when they got closer to Qunari waters. Varric had promised all the assistance he could provide – unofficially. Off the Viscount’s records. No one could know they were there: it would raise questions too difficult to answer.

The ship lurched again and Laura gave an involuntary groan. The Bull laughed.

“Try to keep your stomach on the inside. I hear that helps.”

Absolute panic clamped down on her chest and she rolled onto one side and retched, dry-heaved. She shut her eyes and pushed the world away for a while until a cool cloth touched her forehead.

“We can leave now, my love,” Cullen said quietly.

Even in her state she could hear the tension in his voice. Neither of them were happy. She had to calm herself and support her husband.

She forced her eyes open. Cullen smiled at her, though his face was pale and his hairline glistened with sweat.

“The Bull can take our bags,” Laura said.

“Oh,” he grumbled, “can he?” – but he was already looping the straps over his shoulders, carefully avoiding his horns.

Laura pushed herself up and wrapped her arm around Cullen’s neck. She let her stump hang uselessly by her side as he straightened and settled her on her feet. The floor shifted and Laura shut her eyes.

“Seasickness is the worst,” she said softly.

“I’d promise you a break from ships, but I wouldn’t want to lie to you,” Cullen said, and kissed the top of her head. He guided her out on deck, down the rickety gangway and onto the docks.

The Kirkwall heat was dry and instantly oppressive in a way the deserts of the Western Approach had managed to avoid: it was the press of people against the heat that was so unpleasant, the smell of sweat and sewage that made her feel so lightheaded.

She could not see the appeal of this city. Varric's city.

Cullen and the Bull led her to a dilapidated house somewhere in the warrens of the lower city. She got fewer looks than she was used to, and it took her a moment to figure out why. In this city a worn, ill-looking amputee was not an irregular sight. The Bull was the oddity and they overlooked her and Cullen entirely, which she only just realised must have been part of the plan.

The house smelled of rats and mould, but neither were immediately evident even with the harsh sunlight pouring through the cracks in the wooden roof. The Bull shook his head.

"Boss, tell me _your_ Free Marches has a little more class than this."

"We're classy enough to have our own aristocracy rather than Orlesian knockoffs," she replied easily. Ostwick and Kirkwall were nothing alike.

"Varric will meet us at an inn nearby," Cullen said quietly. "From there, I'm led to believe we should be able to leave forthwith."

"Let's not waste time, then," the Bull said as he grabbed the luggage. "This city feels wrong under the skin. Like the Fade, or those damn mirrors."

Laura remembered that oil-slick dread from Crestwood too. "The Veil is thin here."

Cullen's shoulders went stiff and tense, the broad plain of his back trembling. He thumped the door open with the side of his fist.

"Of all the places I never wanted to revisit," he snarled, "Varric hauls me back to the damned Hanged Man."

 

*

 

When they reached the public house – decorated ghoulishly with what Laura hoped was a replica corpse – the whole room went silent, staring at the Iron Bull.

He gave them all an _aw-shucks_ smile. "Don't worry, folks. They're the ones that cost me my eye and my looks. I don't owe them a shred of loyalty."

Silence. Laura noticed one drinker, grey and grizzled and scared, reach for her belt-knife.

"Plus," the Bull added, grinning, "My coin's as good as yours. Barkeep, a round for all my friends here!"

That was all it took – a cheer went around the room, first ragged but then growing in confidence as the Bull threw a full purse at the bemused innkeeper.

She understood the gesture. He was memorable anyway, so he bought their good opinions alongside the memory. While the crowd was distracted with their drinks, she gripped Cullen's hand and let him lead her up the stairs and to one of the back rooms. They slipped inside without knocking.

"Oh," Cullen said before Laura could glimpse inside. "It's you."

Sitting at the table with Varric, in front of a game of Wicked Grace and several half-empty bottles of wine, was a slim elven man with shockingly white hair and tattoos.

"Now, Curly," Varric drawled, "is that any way to greet your old friends?"

Cullen shut the door behind Laura. "I mean no offense other than the dawning horror of exactly who you mean to send with us."

The elf frowned deeply at that, but Varric laughed. "You can't say they're lacking in Qunari-fighting experience." 

"You both," the elf said in a gravelly, Tevinter-accented voice, "are lacking in manners. What happened to the house-training, dwarf?"

"I gave up when you kept calling me 'dwarf', Broody." He stood and bowed to Laura. "Inquisitor Laura Trevelyan, I am delighted and honoured-"

"My name is Fenris," the elf said impatiently. "I am Hawke's-"

"Paramour," Varric supplied with a gleeful grin. "Beloved."

Fenris coughed, and winced. "Companion."

Laura remembered his role in Varric's book; more than that she remembered Hawke standing on the ramparts with far-away grief in his eyes, and such warm affection in his voice. 

"Hawke mentioned you," she said, and gave a short, crisp bow.

Fenris raised one eyebrow. "That's better than Varric mentioning me, certainly."

Cullen sighed, and sat down at the table with a heavy thump. "Varric."

"Curly," he said in a sly tone.

"You're sending Hawke with us."

Fenris took a long, slow swallow of wine straight from the bottle. "He is _sending_ no one. Hawke and I will accompany you."

Laura cleared her throat and found her voice again. "Varric, I thought you wanted to keep Hawke out of trouble?"

"If you find out how to do that, let me know," he said with a shrug. Fenris snorted derisively, as if he agreed but thought it could never be possible.

Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw Cullen hide a smirk with his hand and she ducked her head, a flush of shame warming her face.

No one seemed to notice her discomfort, and Varric held up his hands in defeat. "I tried bribing him with a new mansion but he was having none of it."

"That's because we already have two in this Maker-forsaken city," Fenris muttered. 

Cullen held up both hands, expression turning serious. "Varric. You said we would be able to leave as soon as possible."

"Hawke and your ride should be coming in on tomorrow's tide." Varric gestured at the table of cards and drinks. "Come on, you two. Josephine's not here to clean you out this time, so you're safe to play a while. And you can stay in this suite. It's a damn sight more comfortable than the hovel you swung by."

There was a long beat of silence. The set of Cullen's shoulders was angry but his expression was more deflated than anything else. Laura reached out and laid her palm across his shoulderblades, and felt some of the tension ease at her touch.

"No cards," Cullen said quietly. "But if my lady wishes it, you can tell us of the rebuilding efforts here."

All eyes turned to Laura and for a sickening moment her panic grabbed at her chest. She breathed slowly and sat down next to Cullen, picking up a cup brimming with jewel-dark wine.

"Tell me," she said softly. "Help me love this city like you do."

 

*

 

In the night, Cullen flinched and pleaded for mercy with his eyes screwed shut.

Laura held him close, his head against her collarbone, and sang under her breath: she thought about Varric's Kirkwall, about a melting point of a hundred cultures; how the songs of four different countries could be sung by the drunken miners all together. She tried to imagine Cullen in this vibrant, heaving city and her heart ached for him.

"Hush, my darling," she whispered against his temple. "I love you."

"I'm all right," Cullen mumbled against the soft fabric of her nightdress.

"Of course you are," she replied, fond and teasing, and kissed him, slowly; he touched her cheeks and her neck and a tender warmth pooled in the pit of Laura's stomach, pleasure unfolding like a blossoming flower until she went to run her hands through his hair. But she couldn't. Of course.

For an instant she could feel the soft curls between the fingers of her right hand, she could feel the warmth of his body, but it was only the sick longing in her head.

Cullen had gone still on top of her. "I love you," he said. "We don't have to-"

Fury and fear and frustration choked a harsh noise from her throat. She shook her head sharply.

"I want to make you feel good," she whispered. She hoped he couldn't hear the tears in her voice.

"I want both of us to feel good.”

"You think I don't?" she said, because there was a laden tone to his voice she did not like.

"You don't" - his voice dropped low and strangled - "touch. Yourself. You don't."

Humiliated tears burned her eyes. "My right hand," she choked out. "My _right_. Nothing feels right but you still deserve"-

He kissed her once, hard and firm without promising more. He'd angled his body away from her already.

"You are all I desire," he murmured against her neck. "You, as you feel comfortable, even though you are _far better_ than I deserve."

She dug her fingers into his arm, because her throat was still too thick to talk. It was still very dark in the room though she could hear the Hanged Man's patrons downstairs. She could not help Cullen. Not how he deserved.

"Sleep," he said, as if she had been the one who needed comforting.

She shut her eyes and waited for sleep to take her.

 

*

 

Her eyes were scratchy and heavy, but she could hear Cullen's tense voice somewhere and it pulled at her awareness like a thread. But she was warm and comfortable and did not want to wake.

"Don't worry, boss," the Bull rumbled softly. "He's fine. We're doing good."

 

*

 

If the Bull had thought her childish for needing to be soothed back to sleep, he did not show it the following day. Still, the memory made Laura flush with embarrassment and she kept quiet. The Bull did the talking and she drifted along, out of sight and out of mind.

They went to the docks and waited for another ship to come in. It was a clear day and she could see a looming, dark and crumbling fortress across the water: the Gallows. Cullen averted his gaze.

It was mid-morning by the time their vessel slid into an empty berth. Triple-masted and made of gleaming red wood, it outshone the lumbering beasts the Kirkwallers used for fishing. The sails caught the sunlight as if they were made of silk.

Fenris sighed, breaking his silent contemplation of the water. "I see she still hasn't grappled the concept of subtlety."

As the ship slowed to a halt Laura spotted its name picked out in gold gilt. "What's a _Shanked Jory_?"

But the way the Bull chuckled low, Laura did not need an answer. She shuffled her feet and awkwardly watched as over a dozen sailors swung off ropes onto shore and pulled out the gangway.

A woman's strident voice cut through the din of the harbour. "Right, you miserable toerags, unload these Andrastian prayer-boxes, we can't stay in Starkhaven all day!"

The sailors engulfed Laura and the others, hauling crates down while they nudged Laura towards the ship. The Bull was halfway up the plan when someone shouted from the shore for everyone to freeze.

Cullen went still except for his sword hand creeping to his belt, but it was no soldier yelling: an officious-looking weasel of a man holding a worn clipboard was scurrying up towards the ship.

"Name and manifest before you disembark – and you can't unload before you pay the docking fees!"

A swarthy woman sporting a gigantic hat poked her head over the side of the boat.

"His Maj Sebastian wanted these in the Vael Chantry by nightfall!" She shouted, and threw a sloppy salute.

The dock official stared at her open-mouthed but his confusion was not enough. He pointed at the Bull, and at Fenris, then finally Laura and Cullen.

"If you're to take on passengers we must have a record of them and you!"

"Do I look like a bloody cruise ship to you?" she hollered. "They’re Sebastian’s bloody prophets or something, I'm on a holy mission for the Vaels!"

His face flushed purple. "This is Kirkwall, not Starkhaven, you idiot!"

All the sailors stilled in their unloading. Laura had to duck her smile against Cullen's shoulder as her own realisation dawned and as the captain started to theatrically berate her navigators.

"You!" She said, pointing at the Bull. “Don’t you dare try to sneak off. You’re going to get back here and explain why I hired a damned one-eyed navigator who can’t read a map! Everyone back on the ship!”

The official spluttered as the sailors burst back into motion but in reverse. He caught Laura by her empty sleeve.

“Excuse me, this will not stand,” he snapped, but then he looked down and let go as if he’d been burned. “Oh…”

Laura gazed at the sea, frowning distantly with what she hoped was the right amount of melodrama. “The sea took it. I’m sorry for my mistress, but she will have us whipped if we delay.”

Fenris murmured, “She’ll have us whipped anyway,” but the smirk on his pointed face said he didn’t find it as distasteful a prospect. The official stammered something unintelligible before backing away.

Laura followed the crowd of sailors onto the ship and the captain made an elaborate bow.

“Welcome to my parlour: Captain Isabela at your service.” She glanced at Fenris. “Especially yours, you delightful little minx.”

Cullen shifted restlessly as the ship started to turn and move. The sails billowed in the wind. “I remember you,” he said. “You’re one of Hawke’s companions.”

She grinned. “Pop down to the stateroom, gorgeous, while I get this boat back where she belongs. _Corby!_ If you knot it backwards again, you’ll be the anchor next time!”

Standing close to her, her voice rattled Laura’s eardrums. They hadn’t been introduced properly but the deck was too noisy and busy: she stuck her hand in Cullen’s and followed Fenris and the Bull belowdecks.

The ship lurched, and Laura coughed out a breath. She would cope. She had to.

Winding, dark corridors small enough that Cullen had to stoop; the Bull grunted in annoyance each time his horns caught on the beams overhead. But they followed Fenris, who strode with confidence to the end of one corridor: wide double doors of oak that he flung open.

Laura saw silk embroidered cushions, gold and jewels, tapestries glittering on the walls, windows that showed the actual sea, and standing up from a beautifully carved table was Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.

Fenris took two large strides and pulled Hawke down by the sides of his head, foreheads pressed together; Hawke wrapped thick arms around Fenris’ bony shoulders and held him close. 

“Aw, I might cry,” the Bull said in a wry tone.

Fenris held up one hand with a crude gesture, but only for a moment, and then he threaded his fingers through Hawke’s dark hair and kissed him.

“I missed you too,” Hawke murmured softly. When he looked over to Laura his eyes were wetly lit with luminous, overwhelmed joy that slid off his face when he saw Laura’s stump.

“Inquisitor,” he said in that low, soft voice of his. “There were rumours, but I didn’t know how much to believe.”

She shifted her weight uncomfortably and sidled towards the plush, cushioned loungers. “You’re back from Weisshaupt.”

A bright, rueful smile. “Turned out they didn’t want a non-Warden around. Least of all one who saw so many of them die.” He glanced at Cullen almost shyly. “Commander. You’re looking really well.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said. He sounded as uncomfortable and unsure as Laura felt.

“And Your Worship,” Hawke continued. “I’m really sorry about all of the Inquisition stuff.”

All of this said while hanging on to Fenris’ shoulders, while Fenris closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Hawke’s neck. Laura had no idea where to even look.

“Plus,” the Bull said, sounding extremely amused with himself, “these two lovebirds got hitched. This is their honeymoon.”

Hawke’s face started to light up like a child’s, but Fenris covered his mouth with a tattooed hand.

“No,” he growled.

“I didn’t say anything.” Hawke gave Laura a look she couldn’t quite read: nervous and hopeful and amused all at once.

“No, but you were going to. Let them have their happiness without fanfare.”

“I like romance,” Hawke protested.

“I had never noticed,” Fenris drawled. He pulled back from Hawke’s embrace. “When Isabela is ready, you can explain the plan to us, Inquisitor.”

Laura startled a little. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Hawke grasped Fenris’ bony wrist with his tanned and scarred fingers. “She won’t be ready for an hour or so.”

A beat of silence, and then Laura understood and laughed out, “You should, uh, get Fenris to your cabin. His cabin.”

Hawke’s blush was endearing and earthy, rather than the unflattering red splotches that graced Laura’s face. “You too,” he said, and lingered until Fenris rolled his eyes and dragged him away.


	3. The Shanked Jory

A week was too long for any boat trip, let alone one with the Champion of Kirkwall and his handsy lover, the Iron Bull, inappropriate sailors and Isabela mercilessly teasing her, or Cullen, or her and Cullen at the same time.

Which was one of her favourite topics when doing said teasing. 

The trip would be three weeks, just one way. The entire trip would be six, seven more weeks until they got back to Ferelden, and only if everything went according to plan. And they were only one week through. 

So she found privacy for herself – not too difficult when the open-water panic set in and she ran for the nearest bucket. The forward sail locker did nicely: it had a trick entrance to one of the ship’s many smuggling nooks, so wasn’t actually used for its intended purpose. The roll of sails had long gone too mouldy to use, but there was a porthole Laura could open to salt-fresh air, and a length of dusty leather to cover the mound of cloth and make a chair.

She wished she had brought a book with her. It was quiet and peaceful but then she ended up alone with her thoughts for too long and the twisting in her gut started all over again.

“How far along are you?” Isabela asked airily from her posed slouch in the doorway.

The surprise made Laura heave, and only once she was done her mind caught up. “I’m not – I’m seasick. I don’t travel well. I can’t be pregnant, I’m – _bleeding_.”

Isabela snorted and padded over to Laura’s makeshift couch. She threw herself down with artful lack of grace.

“You’re not seasick, Gorgeous. Trust me, I know what seasickness looks like.”

Laura scowled. “So you assume I’m pregnant instead?”

“Married to a hot-blooded man of action like Cullen? Why wouldn’t you be by now?”

She could not remember the last time she had been truly struck speechless. Perhaps this was the Maker’s retribution for being so thoughtless with Alistair.

“I mean,” Isabela continued thoughtfully, “unless you two are really into – but you don’t seem the type.”

“The type to what?” Laura asked. Her voice came out as a thin squeak.

Isabela patted her knee. “Not to worry, Gorgeous.”

A spark of irritation flashed bright enough to give Laura the courage to snap, “I wish you wouldn’t make fun of me like that.”

“Like what, Gorgeous?”

She almost jumped to her feet but remembered the low ceiling and stayed down. “Calling me that.”

Isabela paused. A thin line etched concern, or scrutiny, between two perfectly arched eyebrows. Her skin was weather-beaten and the skin at the tip of her nose was peeling and dry, but she was beautiful. She made the imperfections a part of her.

“Laura. Darling. Of course you’ve got Andraste on your side, and you had the mark and the army and the plan and so on” – she made a _blah-blah_ gesture with one calloused hand – “but come on. Really.”

“I don’t understand,” Laura whispered.

“None of my men follow me because I have a plan,” she said, and laughed. “They start following because I have great tits, and they stay for the booty.”

Laura hid her clenched hand under her thigh. “Your point?”

Suddenly Isabela’s expression flashed with anger. “He is not doing his job right.”

“Who?”

“This is a serious dereliction of duty.”

Laura glanced around them. “I mean, you don’t even use this sail. It’s the wrong fabric and the wrong size. So it doesn’t matter if someone let it get mouldy?”

Isabela wasn’t even listening to her at that point: her gaze was steely but far-away. She patted Laura’s head. “Don’t worry, I’m on the case. I’ll flog him if I have to.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Laura remembered to call after her as Isabela left, cackling.

 

*

 

The storms rolled in a week after that: gigantic, lurching waves that dwarfed the boat and threw them around as if they weighed nothing. The sky was bruise-dark and roiling, the rain drove down with blistering cold anger, and the _noise_. Even belowdecks the roar was deafening.

It had terrified Laura at first, of course. How could it not? But then the tenor of the shouts abovedeck shifted from commanding to panicked, from confident to desperate, and the battle-calm settled around her shoulders like armour.

She ran out onto the treacherously slick deck as one of the ice-cold waves swept across the ship. She kept her footing, but one of the Isabela’s sailors was less lucky and was pinwheeling her arms in an attempt to save her from going over the side.

Laura slid her belt off with a flick of her wrist and whipped it out hard enough to slap the sailor’s shoulder; her instincts were good and she grabbed at the leather.

She was muscular and tall and Laura was not, was dangerously off-balance, so instead of trying to pull her against the torrent of water she slung the sailor sideways, boots slipping on the deck, until the sailor collided with the side of a lashed-down cannon.

Her eyes were wide and wondering. Of course. Laura was not the Inquisitor on this ship: she was the odd, nervous invalid who hid away at mealtimes. 

“Where’s the Captain?” Laura shouted over the wind as she looped her belt back on. They had a brief calm between the waves.

The sailor pointed at the wheel, where a figure was tied to the posts. Laura nodded and slid across the deck – one hop over a snaking coil of loose rope, and ducking under a part of a sail – to Isabela’s side, where she was spluttering for a clear breath.

“Lovely day for a sail,” Isabela panted, shaking her hair from the face. “Come to enjoy the fresh air?”

“Use me,” Laura said, louder again when Isabela cocked her head in a silent question.

“You need two hands to tie a knot!” she shouted, and spat seawater onto the deck. She squinted up at the maze of rigging and sails as one of her lieutenants ran up with an incomprehensible question.

Isabela shouted back something as thunder and lightning wiped out the sound and colour from the boat. She gestured Laura, and said, “Take her!”

The lieutenant hesitated, and Isabela wriggled free of the ropes.

“Andraste’s tits, you take the wheel. Come on, Laura. I hope you like heights.”

Laura did not like heights. She ran after Isabela, matching the careful strides placed best to avoid slipping and falling.

The others were on deck too: the Bull was holding down a cannon that had broken free of its moorings while sailors chained it down; Fenris hauled on one of the long ropes with two others to pull at one of the big sails; Hawke stood over a crowd of sailors and with a heaving gesture and sharp cry, he threw a wall of force that cut the wave apart, shielded the sailors, and let the boat cut through the water.

Cullen was bleeding from his temple but it didn’t seem to be slowing him down as he hauled men off the deck and pushed them to their feet. He scowled when he saw Laura.

“Get below!” he shouted over the howling wind. There was a heaving, cracking of wood and a blur of movement to Laura’s left; she moved on instinct and threw herself and Isabela forwards into Cullen’s steady bulk as part of a sail crashed onto the deck behind them.

Isabela swore and pushed Cullen towards the mess. “Get them down to the sawbones!”

Laura could see, now, two sailors who had been hit by the falling beams and were lying broken and bloodied on the deck. They were both large men and there was no way Laura could lift them.

“I’ll be all right. Go,” she said. He pursed his lips, pained, but he nodded and turned away.

“No time for romance!” Isabela shouted. “Follow me, Gorgeous!”

And with that she started climbing the rigging. Laura had faced worse. She followed. Her boots slipped twice on the wet rope before she found her footing, but she caught herself with her shoulder wedged under a length of rope and her stump clenched around another.

She was not as fast as Isabela but she hauled herself onto the mast’s cross-beam behind her and panted for breath. They were high up. The water stretched out rolling and writhing to the horizon. Somewhere to the west a sliver of gold shone where the stormclouds were breaking up.

“You’ve got a knife?” Isabela shouted, and nodded grimly when Laura tapped the hilt tucked into her boot. “Cut these knots all along here – the sail’s tangled up and messing up my rig. Stop when you reach the mainmast.”

Laura watched her cut the first one with an easy slice of her butterfly knife, then followed her pointing finger to the large mast at the centre of the ship. It was far, but she could do it.

“And after?”

“Meet you down there,” Isabela said, grinning. “Don’t take the shortcut!”

She watched open-mouthed as Isabela stood up on the beam and jumped to one of the other sails, swinging on rope and nimbly flipping in the air to reach the top of the broken sail. There were other sailors there, working hard, but no one was up where Laura was. No one else was that high.

She inched her way along. The boat rocked and bucked underneath her, the beam swung in the wind, but she didn’t let that bother her. She wound salt-slick rope around her stump to secure herself as she crept along, and she cut the tangled mess of cloth free. It tore away and was whipped up into the air, carried on the strong currents.

She had reached the mainmast almost without noticing. There was a rope ladder there, handholds and footholds, so she picked her way down to the deck.

It was a little calmer. The waves were still strong but the ship travelled along them, not across, and the bright sliver of sky was closer. Laura ran her hand through her salt-crusted hair and realised it had stopped raining.

From his vantage point Hawke gave a tired wave. He pointed up at the sail, back at Laura and shook his head in stunned disbelief.

Laura could not help herself: she gave a dainty bow and smiled at the warmth that filled her at her laugh.

 

*

 

The sailors treated her differently after that: serving her food and putting it at Isabela’s table, choice cuts of their salted beef, a nod of greetings when they saw her. A proper cushion and blanket in her sail locker.

She mentioned nothing to Isabela, but she made sure to smile at the sailors when they passed her.

The repairs on the ship continued apace as they travelled, slow but steadily making progress. Isabela ran a good crew.

The winter solstice came, the shortest day and longest night before the sun strengthened once more, and Isabela’s crew celebrated as enthusiastically as Laura would have predicted: drinking from dawn, music and dancing, and rowdy games of chance.

Isabela was smart. She arranged for food and drink to go to her lavish quarters and made a sanctuary for Laura and the others, away from the noise and the chaos.

“They won’t play with me anymore,” the Bull complained good-naturedly. “I keep on winning too much.”

Cullen’s cheeks were flushed with wine, but he was smiling. “I’ll play you. But _not_ Wicked Grace. Chess.”

“As if I have a chess set, darling,” Isabela crooned from her spot curled up on the divan by Fenris’ feet. He seemed to be mostly ignoring her, but when she stretched like a cat he made room for her without looking up from his book.

“I’ll make a chess set,” Cullen said crossly. “A temporary one. I have ink and parchment.”

“That’s okay, Commander,” the Bull said.

“Oh, I see,” Cullen said, and smirked. “You’re afraid to lose. Well, I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“This isn’t strip chess, is it?”

“It _could_ be,” Isabela yelled.

Cullen had already pulled a sheaf of writing paper from Isabela’s desk. He laughed as he drew the playing board, as the Bull insulted him. It made Laura’s heart ache with pride and jealousy. She wanted him happy but she dearly wished she could be the one to make him laugh like that.

She went over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself more brandy. Apricot brandy and ginger wine, strong enough to make her nose itch.

“I can smell that from here,” Hawke said, still staring out at the dark sea. He had been standing at the windows for a while.

“Sorry,” she murmured, and gulped half of it down.

“No, I like it. I’m sorry,” Hawke mumbled.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m no good at this.”

Laura felt totally mystified. “Apologising?”

“Talking to you,” he said, and glanced over at her with earnest eyes. “I mean, come on.”

Laura shook her head. “I’m sorry I’m difficult to talk to.”

“I’m nervous of you because I _admire_ you,” he said with real outrage. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Hawke was older than her. She remembered Varric telling her once she was the same age as Hawke’s younger brother. But at this moment she didn’t feel younger; the weight of the Inquisition tugged at her shoulders and made her feel ancient.

“Well, thank you,” she said slowly. She wasn’t sure what else she could say.

“I wish I could help you be less sad,” he said, and looked back at the sea. “To return the favour.”

Laura approached his window and tried to contemplate the water with him but it made her break into a cold sweat. “Go on?”

“You cleaned up my mess. The war. You saved me. And Varric, from what Fenris would have done to him.” He smiled, but he looked sad, not amused. “I tried so hard there. I loved that city. I tried to make it better to change things.”

“I remember what you said to Varric,” Laura whispered. “When you try to change things, things change.”

“I broke it,” Hawke said, and wiped his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “If there had been no war, maybe the Grey Wardens might have gone to the Circles for help. Adamant wouldn’t have fallen. And Stroud – he saved my brother’s life and I got him killed.”

“I chose him because he wasn’t a mage,” Laura said, sharply so he would stop and listen. “I didn’t want to find out if the demons could possess you while you were actually there. It was too much of an unknown.”

He blinked wet, brown eyes at her. And he shook his head. “How broken must the world be, to wish you had killed a friend?”

Laura kept her mouth shut until she could work out he meant his mage friend, Anders. The cause of the war, or at least its catalyst.

She thought of Solas. She thought of if she’d known earlier. Would she have tried to kill him while he was less powerful? She reached out and touched Hawke’s arm. He glanced over, hesitated, and lifted his hand, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and held her while they both watched the sea.

 

*

 

Laura wasn’t sure how long it was until the others crowed in excitement and Cullen shouted, “Checkmate!” but she felt good. Calm. Looking at the waves with Hawke by her side, it wasn’t so frightening. She blinked her way out of a meandering daydream of green grass and clear skies and looked up at Hawke.

“I think your husband won,” Hawke said softly. “Iron Bull’s leaving in a huff.”

She heard the door slam shut over the Bull’s low chuckle. “Of course he won.”

Hawke lifted his arm and ruffled her hair. “I’m really glad that…” Hawke started and glanced back at the others thoughtfully. “I always liked Cullen. Back in Kirkwall…”

“But you’re,” Laura started, then hesitated.

He smirked. “I’m pretty sure he kept Meredith off my back for six years. He never really seemed happy. He is now. You can see it so clearly.”

Laura looked back at him. The candlelight made his hair glow golden and when he threw his head back in laughter his throat caught the suffuse light. She could not ever get used to his beauty.

He glanced over and they made eye contact for a long moment that grew more heated as her heart beat solidly in her chest.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Hawke said, and his voice was low and rough the way Cullen’s sometimes went, late at night when he looked at Laura in the moonlight.

She followed Hawke’s gaze and saw Fenris watching back, eyes dark, sprawled on the lounger with his legs parted. His want and his hunger for Hawke, so plain on his face, sparked something low in Laura’s stomach and she found she couldn’t look away.

As she watched, Isabela padded on bare feet over to Fenris and brushed his hair from his eyes with odd tenderness. Intimacy. The air felt thick and heady with incense and apricot brandy and desire. Cullen was watching Fenris and Isabela with a quizzical expression, worry in the way he glanced at Hawke, but Laura knew the moment he felt the changing atmosphere too.

“I – we’ll just be” – Cullen lurched to his feet, but Isabela reached over and pushed him back down without breaking eye contact with Fenris.

“Hush. I’ll just be a moment,” she said, mouth curving coyly.

Fenris grunted and shook his head free of her hands. “Should I be insulted?”

“Of course you should.” She leant forward and Laura could not see what they were doing; Hawke made a small noise of protest but all Isabela did was angle her body so she wasn’t blocking their view.

“That’s better,” Hawke said. His voice was hoarse.

Isabela caught Fenris’ bottom lip with her teeth, and leant back when he growled and snapped up at her. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll let Hawke smooth your ruffled feathers.”

“It will take more than that to ruffle me,” Fenris said, and the set of his jaw was all challenge.

Laura’s breath caught in her throat and she knew Hawke had stopped in his tracks too as Isabela and Fenris kissed: no, battled, teeth and tongues and grasping hands. Fenris dug the sharp claws of his gauntlet into the meat of Isabela’s shoulder and she responded by pulling his head back by her hair and licking up his neck.

In Laura’s peripheral vision there was movement: Cullen getting slowly to his feet looking utterly stunned, brick red flush and open mouth. Laura could see how the display was affecting him.

“That’s enough,” Hawke said, but not in anger. He strode over and kissed Isabela for only a heartbeat: a huge outpouring of passion that made Laura ache. He kissed her again on her forehead, whispered something softly in her ear which made her laugh.

“I think that might be a bit much too fast,” she said with a sly smile. “But give us a show before you go.”

Laura was frozen to the spot. Cullen drifted forward until Isabela touched his shoulder feather-light, and then he stopped too, as Hawke and Fenris embraced with an intimacy Laura had never watched before. It wasn’t just their mouths, Hawke’s golden-tan shoulders bared as Fenris tugged his shirt away, the pulse fluttering at Fenris’ neck; they handled each other with such easy familiarity it left Laura feeling on the verge of tears.

She tore away her gaze and looked down at the floor. The carpet had a Tevene design but the colours were sumptuously Orlesian. It was an outrageous carpet designed to inflame passion and offense. Josephine would be scandalised. It was exactly the kind of carpet Isabela would have.

Someone touched Laura’s chin – calloused but tapered and cool. Isabela, not Cullen. She looked up. Isabela had a kind smile and such deep, warm eyes. They didn’t catch the light to glow gold and amber like Cullen’s did: they glittered darkly as she led Laura over to the loungers. 

Hawke and Fenris had left. Cullen was sitting down again with his hands tightly clasped on his lap as if he had no idea what to do with them. 

“I hope you didn’t forget my promise,” Isabela said, her voice silky-smooth.

Laura let herself be pushed down next to Cullen. Even without touching him she could feel the heat of his body. It was terribly distracting.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathily, and coughed to clear her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Isabela _tsked_ , glancing between the two of them thoughtfully. “Well, I won’t take it personally. I’m generous like that.”

Cullen’s whole body twitched and he snapped, “Just what was the purpose of that – that display? You and – and the Champion.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Unless you’re smuggling a telescope down there, Rutherford, I think you got the purpose better than you think.”

Despite the scandalised squawk Cullen gave, Laura could not help the breathless laugh that escaped from between her fingers. She felt free, floating above the dull panic and dread that normally sat at the back of her mind.

“See, your gorgeous wife knows what’s going on.” Isabela raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you remember what I promised I’d do to him if he didn’t shape up?”

She had spoken of dereliction of duty, and Laura like a fool had misunderstood; she’d thought it was sailing nonsense but it was this. This heat and this desire. _Flogging_ , she had said.

“Laura,” Cullen whispered, brow furrowed. “What is this?”

“Think of me as divine intervention,” Isabela said, and she eased her rough fingers into Laura’s braided, salt-sprayed hair. Eased it free of the dozens of pins Laura had resorted to just to keep it from falling.

She could not help it: she made a small noise of protest.

“Oh, no,” Isabela said. “No hiding away this time.”

“It’s not that.” Cullen reached out to hold her wrist still. “It’s harder for her to put it up now. You’re just making extra work for her later.”

He knew. _He knew._ She’d tried so hard to look like she could do it, but he’d seen. She shut her eyes.

“So tomorrow you two take a bath, throw in some of my scented oils, and do it back up for her.”

“She doesn’t want me to,” Cullen whispered. His hand found Laura’s and held her tight. “I would if she would let me.”

Isabela tugged the last curls of Laura’s hair free and settled it against Laura’s back. She hummed thoughtfully, and leant in and spoke against Laura’s cheek.

“It sounds like someone needs a little help letting you in.”

Her voice promised all the dark, sweet things of the night. Laura heard Cullen’s sharp, shocked breath before Isabela kissed her. It was intoxicating. Her lips were chapped but her cheeks were silky-smooth, and she trailed her fingers down Laura’s jaw and neck to the fastenings of her tunic.

“Sweet Andraste,” Cullen said, and Laura pulled back to look but he wasn’t upset. He looked how Laura felt: Frayed, spread open and trembling with desire.

“Isn’t she just a peach?” Isabela asked, and tilted Laura’s head to the side. Her teeth grazed at a pulse point. “Cullen, darling, tell her how beautiful she is.”

Cullen’s jaw ticked and he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“That sounds like a flogging offense,” Isabela hissed. “Look at her face. You’ll break her heart.”

“No,” Cullen said more firmly. “No words can ever hope to describe how lovely I find her. All the things you call her do her no justice at all.”

Laura felt oddly light, as if she were watching everything, but she felt Isabela’s mouth on her collarbone. Cullen reached forward and slid her shirt off her shoulders.

“Well, you’re a practical man,” Isabela said approvingly. “So _show_ her.”

 

*

 

Isabela left at some hazy point while Cullen kissed a path down Laura’s stomach; she leant close to Laura’s ear and murmured, “Let him love you, Gorgeous. You’re all he wants.”

She whispered something else to Cullen and he whispered crossly, “We’re out of practice, not raw recruits. I know how to-”

He stopped as soon as Laura carded her fingers through his hair, and bent down to kiss her stomach, her hips, her thighs.

They had not done this for a long time, since before the Council. Laura kept her one hand on his head; she wondered what to do with her stump and the mere thought left her sick and ashamed and then Cullen reached out and held it, like he would hold her hand before, and it didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter.

 

*

 

She rode the waves of pleasure until she crested, gasping for breath, and then she pulled him up to her and wrapped her legs around his hips.

Cullen was sweaty and sticky and his lips were red. “If you’re sure – if you want me…”

“I want to let you in. Now,” she said, and was inexpressibly pleased with herself when he laughed. 

“As you say, my Lady.” He leant down, rested his cheek against hers. He smelled of her, and of sweat and sticky vanilla syrup from the sweet pastries she’d watched him eat. She arched up towards him and welcomed him inside her.

 

*

 

Cullen slept soundly, his head resting against her chest. She held him close with what remained of her right arm and smoothed his hair with her fingers. She slept like that and dreamed of wide open fields and calm, cool water scattered with scented flowers.


	4. Qunathras

The island ahead pierced the thick fog with its glittering spires of granite and metal. No one shouted out; Isabela had doused the lights and ordered silence on deck before they had come within sight of the prison.

Laura breathed slow and deep. This was when she felt calmest: anticipation did not make her panic the way it did for others. At the prow alongside her stood Cullen, Hawke, Fenris and the Bull, but Isabela would be joining them on the island.

I hope you’re not going to claim you can pick a lock with one hand, Gorgeous.

She pushed it all to one side and focused on her breathing. The water lapped at the hull with a high splash that spoke of shallow tides.

The ship slowed. The only sound of the sailors work was the creak of rope and wood, the rustling of sails. 

“You’re sure the Ben-Hassrath wouldn’t have moved, considering _you_ ,” Hawke whispered.

The Bull snorted under his breath. “It’s Qunathras, the heart and soul of re-education. They wouldn’t put him anywhere else.”

“It’s a bit late to have doubts, Hawke.” Fenris jostled him with his elbow.

“Quiet,” Cullen hissed. “We’re close.”

The ship inched forward until a shuddering crack reverberated through the deck. A lone sailor cried out, “’Ware beached!” before an eerie silence descended.

Isabela dropped from the rigging, landing on her feet with the confidence of a cat. She did not look happy.

“I can’t come with you,” she said. “They need the Captain to get this thing free and turned around, if you want an escape route.”

“Understood,” Laura said calmly. “Get the ship ready for us.”

“I can’t come with you,” she repeated, and waggled the fingers of her right hand meaningfully.

“We’re wasting time,” Laura replied. “We need to get moving.”

Isabela watched them leave with pinched worry between her eyebrows, then quietly started her sailors moving to free the ship from the sand.

They had chosen a quiet, secluded spot to disembark: a thin strip of black sand and small pebbles sitting underneath a sheer cliff face forty feet high. Of course no one would try to invade, so it was unguarded. But the Bull was their secret weapon.

“The entrance is around here,” he said, gesturing at a part of the cliff-side where the water was lapping at the rocks.

“It’s underwater,” Laura said flatly. “You didn’t mention that part.”

“Just the entrance,” he said with far too much cheer.

Cullen’s gloved hand settled at the back of her neck. “Is there no other way?”

“You’re the ones insisting we don’t use the front door.”

Laura cleared her throat. “So let’s not waste time. Let’s go.”

They all stopped and stared at her, even Fenris, though he then shrugged and started picking his way across the sand.

“Will you be all right?” Hawke asked, his voice laden with meaning.

“I’ll hold on to Cullen, or the Bull. I only need one hand for that.”

“I mean,” he started, but she shook her head to cut him off.

“We’re wasting time,” she said. Again. “Bull. Lead the way.”

Cullen held her hand tightly; Hawke tied his belt to hers as part of a long chain so no one could get lost.

Fenris looked down at the rope and said drily, “This is an excellent excuse for all of us to drown rather than just one.”

“That’s the optimist I love.” Hawke shot him a sappy grin.

It wasn’t as deep as Laura’s frenzied imagination had feared: the Bull’s horns were only just submerged as he stooped down to find the entrance. They followed along one by one, down a narrow flooded passageway that would have been utterly black were it not for Hawke’s growing hands. Laura squinted against the saltwater sting and let her professionalism push the fear aside.

It wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. After less than thirty seconds she broke the surface of the underground pool and clambered onto the slippery rock ledge next to Hawke and the Bull.

Cullen broke the surface next and rolled onto the ledge with ease, despite his armour; she suddenly remembered the lake near his childhood home.

As Fenris spluttered his way to join them, Laura watched Cullen shake seawater from his hair and thought about how he might want to live somewhere near water. Not the sea, not like Kirkwall, but maybe near a lake or a river.

“Follow me,” the Bull said. “And Hawke, put those lights out. This is Viddasala’s territory. Keep magic to a minimum.”

Hawke nodded grimly and they followed the Bull in single file: down a pitch-black tunnel that the Bull navigated by feel, through a winding slope upwards then down. Laura kept on tripping over an odd groove worn into the rick beneath her feet.

“You – they – use this entrance to move heavy items,” she whispered. “There are wheel tracks in the stone, and no steps.”

The Bull grunted an impressed affirmative, though he made no comment. Finally they reached an impasse: a large, intricately mechanical door with no obvious handles.

“Qunari things are so _advanced_ ,” Hawke murmured. “How come no one else can make stuff like this?”

Fenris jostled him. “Because unlike all the other old races aboveground, they don’t rely on magic to do work for them.”

“That explains why Tevinter’s basically at the same state it was at an Age ago.” Laura peered at the door. “Bull?”

He grunted again, reached to the very top and pushed in a set of panels in sequential order. The door creaked open on old hinges, but the corridor beyond it was empty.

“It’s odd there’s no guards,” the Bull said quietly. “Soldiers. Anyone.”

“Handy, though,” Hawke offered. The Bull said nothing.

The architecture reminded Laura of the fortress they’d struck through the eluvians. Darvaraad. But everything was old, weathered, yet maintained to loving perfection. Lit torches burned steadily on the walls, and not a single cobweb lurked in the high corners of the room.

“Where would they keep Ataashashaad?” Cullen asked, one hand resting alertly on his sword.

“Two options. Either he’s here by choice or he’s not. By choice, they’d probably put him up top. Otherwise, somewhere in the secure wing.”

Laura only had to consider it for a moment. “Even if he was consenting, he’d never choose to be here. He would insist on being held securely.”

“Got to love Qunari principles,” Fenris drawled.

 

*

 

The secure wing was a set of wide, clean corridors that smelled of ammonia and flowers. Every eight feet along the corridor were large metal doors that stood silently, locked and gleaming.

“Where are the guards?” Cullen asked softly.

The Bull gestured at the doors. “Why have guards? No one ever escapes Qunathras.”

They walked past a larger open space with huge windows that overlooked the ocean, and on the other side, a walkway loomed over the room. A shuffling movement drew Laura’s eyes to the far corner of the walkway but the Bull caught her wrist in his giant hand. She glanced at him, and he gave a miniscule shake of his head.

She followed him in silence. The reached a single door that stood open, and Laura approached it with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“We’ll wait outside,” said the Bull. “He’ll only want to talk to you.”

She entered the cell. Ataashashaad sat on a granite bed, waiting for her.

 

*

 

She sat down opposite him on a chair that seemed like it had been set out expressly for this purpose. He inclined his head but otherwise remained perfectly still.

He was unhurt and well-fed. His skin was hydrated and healthy. These facts were not indicators of his fate in Qunathras.

“Fuchsia is worried about you,” she said softly.

“She is right to be.”

Laura had not forgotten the flat way he talked. She had prepared herself for it. “Are you going to tell me why she is right to be worried?”

“No,” he said, placid as a stone.

She ignored the dread building inside her. “Are you going to come with us?”

“No.”

She kept her face impassive and breathed normally. “Why are you here?”

“For re-education.”

“If you need re-educating, then you are the kind of person who would want to escape. You don’t want to escape, therefore you don’t need re-education. So you can come with us.”

Anger flashed across his features. “I welcome the Qun. I welcome clarity. I chose to come here because it is my duty as Ataashashaad to promote the glory of the Qun, and I cannot do that as I am.”

He would respect a wild leap into the dark if she guessed true. She took a breath, a heartbeat of thought. “Because you disagreed with the Viddasala.”

“I still do,” he said, and gave an imperceptible shake of the head. “And so I remain here until I embody the will of the Ariqun.”

“What would I tell Fuchsia?”

He did not flinch. “Tell my Kadan that when we meet on the field of battle, Asala will take my life before hers.”

Fenris stuck his head through the doorway. “Inquisitor, apologies, but how much longer will you take? The corridor is too quiet.”

Time for another blind guess. “They will not interfere, because they know we cannot remove Ataashashaad by force, and he will not leave with us.”

Fenris glanced at the impassive Qunari in the cell, then bowed his head and spoke in Qunlat.

“You learned our language in Seheron,” Ataashashaad intoned. “But your common tongue drips Tevene. Tell me, elf, when you escaped slavery on that island, why you did not join the Qun.”

As if summoned, Hawke popped out from behind Fenris. “I didn’t quite hear that. What’s going on?”

His disarming smile did not hide the fire in his eyes. But Fenris put a metal-clad hand on Hawke’s face and firmly pushed him back into the corridor.

“I had, and have, no wish to sacrifice any part of my identity to have more order in my life.” His voice was calm, but rough. It was painful for him to talk about, that much was obvious.

“Give me a little more time,” Laura murmured. “Shut the door.”

He studied her for a long moment, then nodded and pulled the door until it sat flush with the stone wall.

“Time will not change my mind,” Ataashashaad said grimly.

“Then why do you wait in this cell?”

He paused, and his eyes warmed with amusement. Perhaps pride. “There is more here than time.”

“Yes. There’s me, and my words.”

His mouth twitched. “Your words have so far proven ineffective.”

“On the contrary. I wished to improve my understanding of your position, and I have.”

“Then tell me what you understand of my position.”

Her pulse skipped, and she flattened her palm on her thigh. She stood on a precipice. “You see full-scale war between the Qunari and the continent inevitable. You wish for Qunari casualties to be low, but the treaty has given us Southerners valuable insight into your battle tactics that make that unlikely. You vehemently disagree with the underhanded tactics of the Ben-Hassrath but equally, none of your Triumvirate offer an alternative that would swing the odds in your favour. You feel that the only way of staying loyal is to agree with what is anathema to you. But you’re wrong.”

She stopped, and watched his impassive stare.

“Can you elaborate further?”

“Yes,” she said, and then bit her tongue.

For one heartbeat he smiled: an impressed smirk, mirthful and wry, and then his mouth stiffened once more. “Elaborate.”

“Your role is to seek glory for the Qun. To do that, you must look in new places, in unexpected places. This room will only bring you peace, not glory to your people. But I know where you can seek glory.”

He sat up straighter. She would not make him ask again.

“The Qunari are hated across Thedas. The rulers of our countries, they know of the Dragon’s Breath. They know how close they came to assassination at Qunari hands, and they influence their policies and their people against you.”

“Heathen beliefs do not matter.”

She made herself give a scornful laugh. “Varric told me about Kirkwall. The Arishok sat in a walled compound for a couple of years and gained hundreds of converts, and it’s idiotic that you all write it off, just because of the attack.”

“Be careful, bas,” he growled.

She could not relent. “ _You_ should be careful. Every day the tide turns against the Qun, and every day people who one day could have converted become your fiercest opponents. If you truly wish to bring glory to the Qun, then you should care what us Heathens think. Because bringing the glory of the Qun to us by converting us spreads your influence a _hell_ of a lot better than killing us.”

He slowly got to his feet. She had almost forgotten how tall he was. “You do not believe that I would be successful in such an endeavour, otherwise you would never suggest it.”

“I want peace,” she said, and took a moment to soften her tone. “Fuchsia wants peace. The only way to avoid a war with the Qunari is for us to understand you, and the only chance we have of that is through your influence.”

He watched her for a long minute. She tried not to fidget. 

“Do you not think that the inevitable conversions of the bas would lead to one of your Exalted Marches?”

She smiled gently. “Do you forget the old life of our blessed Divine Victoria? She would want to work with you in pursuit of peace, not against you.”

He stared at her again. Time stretched on. And then his stance shifted and he took one step to reach the door. He pulled it open and looked back at Laura expectantly.

“They will think your bas saarebas has poisoned my mind. They will kill all of you and then take me back to the Saarvaraad and attempt to cleanse me before I too am killed.”

Laura drew her long dagger from its sheath at my belt. “We will endure and evade.”

He nodded and stepped out into the corridor. In the distance, an alarm bell started to ring.

*

The open hall with the overlooking walkway was a problem. A tactical issue. They reached the hall quickly enough that no Qunari waited to block their path, but they were audibly lining up above them.

Cullen glanced at the other warriors and grimaced. Laura saw what he did not like: three greatswords and one shield-bearer was not optimal for the lances wielded by Qunari spear-throwers.

“I can shield us,” Hawke said.

“Shield the Inquisitor.”

Laura coughed pointedly. “Shield yourself and the Bull. I’m fast, and he’s far too big a target. Ataashashaad, I’ve seen you strike a spear from the air. I trust you still can?”

He grunted, as if for her to check was an offense.

“Cullen,” Laura continued, “you watch for yourself and Fenris. Go first, us in the middle, Ataashashaad at the back. And move quickly.”

She had expected Cullen to hesitate – to fix her with that hurt, worried look – but he blinked at her as if he was stunned with pleasure and pride. “On your order, Inquisitor.”

They moved out. Hawke’s barrier crackled and turned the air sour and bright; Laura put herself on the other side. She did not want to get between the Lancers and that inviting target. 

It went almost perfectly: the thick spears were easy to evade, or strike mid-air, and the group was fast. But as they passed the mid-point Hawke cried out a warning: “Darts!”

Up ahead Cullen flinched and staggered to one side, his shield faltering for a moment before he straightened his shoulders back up. They staggered to the other corridor and the Bull hauled shut the great metal doors, twisting the handle until it screeched in protest.

“We have only minutes-”

Ataashashaad fell silent and looked to Cullen. “Remove the dart immediately. It is poison.”

Cullen turned and fell against the wall. His skin was already ashen and gleaming with sweat. When Laura rushed to his side she saw his eyes were black and wild. The dart had found its home in the crevice of his armour under his clavicle. She tugged his arm up and gripped, and pulled. Tried to pull. The dart was slippery with his blood and she had only one hand, and it caught on something inside him and he groaned low in the back of his throat.

She knew that noise from his nightmares: he made that sound instead of screaming.

“It’s caught,” he said through chattering teeth.

“It has barbs,” Ataashashaad said calmly. “You must cut it out or tear through muscle and bone and risk losing the arm.”

Everyone was moving and talking over each other, but Laura quietly dipped her beneath Cullen’s good arm and focussed on him. His whole body was shaking. She wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and took a moment to sink against his warmth.

“I’ll kill you,” he snarled, and threw her against the wall with his arm pinned across her neck. She could not breathe.

“It’s saar-qamek,” Hawke said and she could hear the fear in his voice. “Someone get me a knife!”

“To Hell with this,” Fenris snarled, and through the darkening haze of asphyxiation Laura saw him glow blue and white; his tattoos etched ghostly lines on her vision and he reached his hand through Cullen’s armour – through the meat of his shoulder as if it were air – and Cullen’s back arched in a violent spasm as Fenris yanked his hand back and held the bloody dart aloft.

Cullen screamed, he _screamed_ , and his mouth gaped in a rictus snarl, but the pressure of his arm on Laura’s throat was unceasing.

“Sorry, boss,” the Bull said, and struck Cullen once in the back of his head with the pommel of his sword. He crumpled and would have fallen but Ataashashaad caught him and threw him over his shoulder, limp and unresisting.

Laura gulped in a shaky breath and choked out hoarsely, “Is there an antidote?”

“In the Saarvaraad,” Ataashashaad said, and added, “You would call it a vault, or saferoom.”

“I’ve got some stuff back on the boat I can rig together to help him,” the Bull said. The alarms were still jangling across the building. “Would get us out quicker.”

“All of you,” Laura said and coughed against the pain in her chest, “get Cullen out. Make sure he’s safe under the water if he’s still unconscious. I’ll find the vault.”

“There will be many soldiers between here and there,” Ataashashaad said grimly. “You are crippled.”

“I can go unnoticed.” She held his gaze steadily. “This isn’t up for debate. You will all extract yourselves and wait for as long as is safe for the ship, and then you will leave.”

She waited for a few tense moments and stared down her men, and slowly they each nodded their assent. She allowed herself one last glance at Cullen’s blond hair, his greying, clammy hands, and the blood trickling down his fingers.

“I am entrusting him to your care,” she said roughly. “Do not fail me.”

*

Ataashashaad and the Bull had told her where to go, and they had warned her of the winding, maze-like corridors designed to confound interlopers. But they need not have bothered. As soon as Laura got close to the Saarvaraad she could feel the wrongness and magic, the flimsy Veil flickering and humming like it did in Kirkwall.

She had never been sensitive to such things before the Anchor, and she supposed she should have lost the awareness along with her arm, but her hackles had not forgotten the sense of danger and anticipation. Something remained of that magic, buried deep inside her.

She stuck to the shadows and padded softly down the stone corridors, listening for voices, or the creak of leather or the clank of metal armour and weapons. When she heard soldiers approaching she his and let them hurry past her back towards where the others had been fighting. She fought no one, and no one saw her. 

She reached a corner around which lay the sealed vault doors to the Saarvaraad, and two broad, almost impossibly tall Qunari soldiers. They stood impassively despite the distant alarms, and she knew she could not distract them from their duty.

In her belt pouch she had poisons, but she did not want to kill them. The toll of Qunari in her ledger was already far too high.

She paused, considered the mental map she had been building of the compound. The vault would not have windows, but it would have to have ventilation.

Just before they had left, the Bull had murmured a translation to her: the place that holds evil and danger. Protection. They would have equipment, machinery, protective cases: all heavy items that would need to be brought up from the beach upon arrival.

She remembered the dark corridors with worn grooves and doubled back, looking for an entrance to the transport lines. Tucked away near the stairwell: a small door for workers to enter and exit. Unguarded. She slipped inside and followed the tracks by the feel of them under her boots, in pitch darkness, until a sliver of light glimmered low down in front of her. She eased the doors open and slipped inside the Saarvaraad and saw movement across the room that sent her pulse into a frenzy.

It was her reflection, warped and indistinct, in an eluvian.

There were no guards in the vault so she leant against the door and breathed slowly until she felt calmer. The eluvian sat unmarked at the far end of the large room. Along the walls were cupboards, display cases, annotated taxidermy, and books all individually chained shut.

She needed to help Cullen but she had no idea where to start. She was so stupid. She had not considered her inability to read Qunlat or know anything proper about magic. She should have brought someone with her.

Her reflection stared back at her with a worried frown, clutching at her necklace. She looked down. It was the necklace Dorian had given her, the sending necklace. They had not spoken in weeks, since before the trip, but she still remembered how to activate it.

She closed her hand tighter around the crystal and closed her eyes. Focussed on Dorian, the sound of his laughter, the quirk of his eyebrow, the way his ridiculous outfits would catch the light.

Opening her eyes, her vision swam with an excess of feedback. If she looked just so, the vault faded away and instead she could see a dark room, a bedpost illuminated b flickering candlelight.

Dorian sat up in the bed with a bare chest, but at least he was alone. The sending crystal glowed around his neck as he beamed at her.

“Excellent work, my dear Inquisitor. This time you’ve disturbed me only as I went to sleep rather than in the middle of the night!”

“You sleep topless?” she asked sceptically.

He raised one eyebrow exactly as Laura had remembered. “Who says I’m wearing trousers?”

Despite everything, Laura grinned and ducked her head. She had missed him so much.

“Though I see this isn’t a social call,” Dorian continued, looking around his bedroom with frank curiosity. A single breath and he was in the room with her, pulling on a silk dressing gown while he examined the nearest shelf.

“I need the antidote to saar-qamek, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.” She pointed at the glass case that glittered with potions and tinctures. “Can you help?”

He tutted under his breath as he went over to the bottles. “Just because I’m a magister of the Imperium, doesn’t mean I’m some sort of Qunari expert. Other people handle the details of the war effort, you know.”

“I was more wondering if you recognised anything from the Bull’s stash.”

“His potions weren’t the stash taking up my attention,” he said with a ridiculous leer, and when all Laura did was snort with quiet laughter he glanced back at her. “No blush this time? Either I’m losing my touch, or…”

“The antidote, please. I promise we’ll gossip later.”

He shrugged and turned his attention to the potions. Laura drifted over to the artefacts instead. There were staves and rods, presumably confiscated from bas mages; intricate elvish runes that glowed slightly under the sending crystal’s odd magic; a set of three crystals so black they seemed to absorb light from the room; a simple silver ring locked in a thick glass box; the polished skeleton of a nug that hummed in the back of her mind.

“Here we go,” Dorian announced, pointing at a set of small glass flasks filled with cloudy white liquid. He stood back while Laura transferred them to her pack and slung it over her shoulder.

“This place is insane,” he murmured. “Half of these things were plundered from Tevinter border outposts and towns during territory disputes.”

“I thought you didn’t handle details of the war.”

He rolled his eyes. “Magic, Laura. This is magic.”

Somewhere in the distance a cannon fired. Laura could not tarry longer: Cullen needed the antidote and they needed to leave before a dreadnought found the ship.

“This one is different,” Dorian said: he had approached the eluvian. “The carving is specific. Is it depicting a myth?”

“I have to get out of here,” Laura whispered, but drifted closer to him. She did not like being near the mirror.

“I think it’s Mythal,” Dorian continued as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Or – no. Laura, look.”

She reluctantly followed his gaze to the worn frame, which was intricately carved with a story of some kind. A woman and her husband, a lover, the lover’s murder, then woman kneeling in supplication or despair. A light surrounding her and entering her.

“Flemeth,” Laura said softly. “Mythal.”

“My ancient elvish is shockingly rusty, but I recognise that word. _Enansal_ means gift. A blessing.” 

The mirror shone wetly in the lamplight.

“You can’t just leave it here,” Dorian whispered. “Use it or destroy it, but don’t let the Qunari exploit it.”

She reached out, careful to touch only the frame, not the glass. It was so heavy. She pushed and it scraped against the floor with an abortive screech.

The door started to click open and she leapt behind the mirror. Dorian stood there, watching where she could not see. She breathed slowly as the Qunari guards entered, paused, and left again, locking the doors behind them.

She needed to destroy the eluvian. She needed to destroy the vault. She needed to get back to Cullen and get Ataashashaad back to Fuchsia and she needed to make sure that Fuchsia and Alistair were all right.

The weight of the world settled on her shoulders. She crept out from behind the mirror and set her hand against it, more firmly this time, and went to push.

The mirror rippled and a hand reached out of the glass and gripped her by the wrist.


	5. Interlude – A Crossroads

The air crackled with frost and magic as Morrigan stepped out of the mirror, still holding on to Laura’s wrist. It was very quiet and dark in the room. Laura could not see anything beyond the bubble of glowing light that surrounded her and Morrigan. She couldn’t hear Dorian at all.

Morrigan blinked her odd yellow eyes and shook her hair out of her face. “Well. If anyone were to use this eluvian, it’s best to be you.”

Laura gaped for a long moment. She looked – not well, exactly, but certainly healthy. She wore a tight bodice of feathers and phoenix scales and parts of her hair were wrapped into upwards-pointing horns; she looked healthy, but not herself. She looked more like her mother.

“’Twould be best to assume that I have a busy schedule, yes? So make your wish known to me and I will be on my way.”

“Morrigan,” Laura said softly, finally finding her voice. ”How have you been? How’s Kieran?”

Her expression softened, though she seemed to take great pains not to properly smile. “He is well, thank you. And I, at least, am more powerful now than I have ever been. ‘Tis best not to think about the leash.”

“I lost my arm,” Laura said, by way of her own update. She lifted the stump to wave it around.

Morrigan nodded sagely. “And you wish me to bring it back for you, yes?”

Laura’s heart trembled in her chest. “You can do that?”

“You have not changed, I see.” Morrigan rolled her eyes theatrically. “Stumbling into a magical artefact hand-first and hoping for the best.”

“I was trying to destroy it,” she mumbled. “So the Qunari couldn’t use it.”

“Ah.” Morrigan lifted her pale hand and stroked Laura’s forehead with one tapered finger, and a flood of memory-thoughts flooded into her: Ben-Hassrath trying every method they could to activate the eluvian and failing with impassive unfeeling stoicism, the vibrating expectation and want locked inside the glass where they could not see with their cold, calm hearts.

“It’s a wishing mirror, Your Worship,” Morrigan continued. “And Qunari are far too satisfied with their place in the world to do something like make a wish.”

“But I would,” Laura murmured, trying to ignore the ebb of disappointment at herself. She had a loving and attentive husband, new friends, and for a short few weeks she had a purpose in her life. She did not deserve to feel dissatisfied with her lot.

“My _mother_ ,” Morrigan snarled at the mirror, “felt your need and sent me in her stead. As a gesture of goodwill to you.”

Laura nodded slowly, though in all honesty she did not understand. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Lady Morrigan. You can return to – whatever you were up to.”

“Name your wish, and I shall.” She took a graceful, mocking bow. “Your arm? Riches? A new title to replace what you have so recently lost?”

“You make it sound like you can do anything,” Laura said, thinking of Cullen, the pain that he had to be feeling.

Morrigan intoned in flawless Elvish, tracing her fingers over the carved symbols. She added in the common tongue, “A Desire demon will give you what is in your heart. A Pride demon will give you what others have. But Mythal, here, Mythal’s enansal, gives you what you had given up hoping for. A last chance at happiness: one she was denied.”

It was far too much pressure. How could she decide? She had only just started to accept her arm and her new capabilities. She thought of how to explain a healing miracle and was overcome with exhaustion; the last thing she wanted was more attention.

 _What you had given up hoping for._ Her stomach flopped and fluttered with butterflies, and Morrigan held up her hand.

“You don’t need to say it. I feel it.” She smiled enigmatically. “I was looking for an excuse to intervene.”


	6. Leaving Qunathras

“Laura. Laura!”

She blinked and flinched back from the eluvian. Morrigan was nowhere to be seen and the mirror was dark. Dorian waved his translucent hand in front of her face.

“Okay, it’s too heavy for you to push over. I have an idea.”

“You didn’t see that?” Laura asked, stuttering as she took a step back.

“Grab that bag,” he said, pointing at the side of the room. “Fill it with these items and then we can find a way to burn the rest of it down.”

Laura let Dorian guide her. She pushed her questions to the back of her mind and packed away the items he’s chosen: several books, the silver ring in its glass box, a vial of glittering rose-gold liquid that Dorian hissed at when she fumbled it into the bag.

“Now to burn the rest,” he said thoughtfully.

She kicked over a tub of gaatlok and rolled it across the room so it scattered powder before rolling to a stop by the eluvian.

“Wait – take this too,” Dorian said, flapping his hands at a stave half Laura’s height.

She didn’t ask, she just took it and rolled a few more barrels into position. The lights were small metal-bracketed gas torches set too high up the wall for Laura to reach: they needed a way to light the powder.

Dorian waggled his eyebrows at her and the staff in her hand. “Kata is the activation word.” 

She understood. She went back to the loading bay and climbed into a wheeled trolley, hunkering down low.

Dorian crouched down in front of her. “Laura, my dear friend. Tell me when you are safe. I’ll wait up.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and for a moment she felt the warm candlelight, smelled Dorian’s spicy tea. It soothed her panicked heartbeat. She peeked over and pointed the red crystal-encrusted tip of the staff at the barrels of gaatlok. She whispered the Qunari code-word and felt a brilliant, potent energy coil inside the staff and burst out in a gout of white-hot flame.

She ducked down and curled up and shut her eyes. The explosions rattled her teeth and burst in her ears and the trolley rocketed down the service tunnel. She kept her eyes shut and prayed to the Maker and let Him guide her to the water’s edge.

Her head swam with noise and nausea, but she had stopped moving. She climbed out of the trolley and staggered on the slippery rocks. The air smelled of salt and smoke; underneath the ringing of her ears she heard the ocean. Water lapped near her feet and she inched along in the darkness until she found the ledge.

It was pitch black save for a dull glow somewhere under the water. Cullen needed her. She strapped the bag tighter around her, tucked the staff into her belt and jumped into the icy seawater.

A rope cut into her thigh and she clutched at it, pulled herself along and kicked and tried not to breathe. It was awful. She endured. The light grew stronger and her lunges burned and finally her head broke the surface of the water and she gasped for breath.

Isabela’s ship was under fire from a dreadnought but they were not leaving. Laura cursed under her breath, ran, and prayed she would reach the ship before the dreadnought’s fire broke it apart.


	7. The Shanked Jory, Part II

The escape from the dreadnoughts was long and nerve-wracking, a chase across miles of open sea that Isabela seemed to enjoy at first, but by the third day hated as much as everyone else. Laura had no place in it: once the Bull and Ataashashaad had administered the antidote to Cullen she kept vigil over his unconscious, trembling body and stayed out of the sailors’ way.

On the third day, Dorian called to her so forcefully the sending crystal glowed blisteringly hot around her neck and she winced as she tuned into the magic.

“Oh good,” Dorian said with acid and venom, “you aren’t dead. Wait. What’s Mr. Trevelyan doing all laid up?”

“I’m sorry for not contacting you sooner,” she said softly. “He was poisoned. I’m watching over him.”

Dorian gazed at her with exasperated fondness. He glanced behind him, at what looked like nothing, but when Laura concentrated she saw the view from his Minrathous apartment’s balcony: glittering spires and slate rooves, winding avenues and rippling rivers, and the crackle-glow of magic sputtering through the city. It seemed very peaceful.

“Tell me what’s been going on,” Dorian murmured. So she did: the ship, Hawke and Fenris, the quest to bring back Ataashashaad. Cullen’s poisoning and how Fenris removed the dart with his lyrium ghostliness. His long sleep.

“You sound happier, though,” Dorian said. He gazed at Cullen’[s prone form. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He has you.”

For a fierce moment Laura wished Dorian were here with her. She wished so much that they could hug. 

“I really miss you,” she said, and brushed her hand against the spectral light of his arm. “You’re a good friend.”

“I know, and exceedingly handsome to boot, he said. He reached out and tried to ruffle her hair and it made her scalp prickle with the aura of his magic.

Cullen made a loud, choked-off groan and his legs twitched.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Dorian said, and let the magic of the sending crystal go with a wave of his hand.

Laura leaned forward and took Cullen’s clammy hand, brushing her thumb over the pulse point in his wrist. His heart was beating so quickly. His nightmares had been so much better before this trip. It had been so long since he had shouted in his sleep, since he had moved more than an abortive twitch. 

This nightmare was the worst she had ever seen. He tore his hand away from hers, clawed dark red scratches into his own face and then her arm as she tried to stop him, his eyes open but unseeing and bloodshot, and he screamed as if his throat was raw and bleeding.

“Oh, Maker,” he cried, clutching at her shoulders, and she knew he was awake. “Maker. Who gave me – I took – it was in me. Laura-”

He choked and buried his face against her chest, his whole body shaking and sweating, and realisation struck her like cold water. Fenris had removed the saar-qamek dart with his powers. The powers conferred by his lyrium tattoos.

“We had to, to save your life,” she whispered, holding him as tight as he clutched at her like he was drowning. “We’ll get through it.”

He shook his head with a desperate, violent jerk. “I can’t do this again.”

Laura remembered her half-dreamed conversation with Morrigan. She was not truly sure that it had happened at all. She smoothed his sweaty hair from his forehead and kissed his brow.

“I will never lose hope,” she murmured against the thready pulse in his neck. “I will never lose faith in you.”

Cullen held onto her. He said nothing, he cried, but he held on.

*

It was hard. It was exhausting. Laura never really found herself tired the way she had felt in Skyhold sometimes, or the way she had when she had cracked and spilled out ugly anger at the Exalted Council. Her bones ached and her eyes felt constantly gritty, and her mouth tasted strangely metallic, but staying with Cullen was her purpose. She felt at peace.

By the time they were out of Rivaini waters and nearing the Free Marches, a bright spring scent hung in the air, like moss and sap, even on the open ocean. The smell was stronger at night, so she waited for Cullen to flinch silently awake from his nightmares and pushed his coat into his hands.

He stared at her, chest heaving and eyes wide. “I don’t – where are we going?”

“Out,” she said, guiding him with her open palms against his back.

He resisted, his feet planted on the floor. “I’m not – not ready.”

“Trust me,” Laura murmured and rested her forehead against the hollow between his shoulderblades.

“Always,” he said, but with a heavy, sad sigh. He let her guide him onto the deck, which even at night was bustling with activity: Isabela’s men scrubbing the cannons down, unfurling the sails in the slow wind. At the wheel Isabela stood with one hip cocked at the Bull, who was leaning over her with heated interest.

“Gorgeous,” Isabela called out. “And Mr. Gorgeous. We haven’t seen you up here for a while.”

Cullen huddled under his own shoulders and said nothing, but Isabela didn’t seem to mind. The Bull leaned down and whispered something in her ear that made her snicker under her breath.

“Boss,” the Bull said to Laura with a nod. “Commander.”

He didn’t seem to expect a response from either of them, and sauntered off without a word.

Laura’s face must have held some expression because Isabela held up both hands in protest. “It’s not what you think?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be judgemental about his race,” Laura said softly, hiding the smile from her face.

Isabela laughed. “Neither of us would enjoy letting the other take over. It’s star-crossed – never meant to be. So tragic.”

“I’m sure you’ll console yourself somehow,” Laura shot back. Beside her Cullen twitched, and she slid her arm around his. “We’ll see you later.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she leered as Laura took Cullen to the quarterdeck, and then the railings at the very stern, where the view overlooked the moonlit, frothing wake. With the sailor’s voices carried away on the wind, all that was left to hear were the creaking ropes and the watery rush and slap of waves against the hull.

“I am not getting better,” Cullen said, teeth chattering. It was not a cold night.

“Yes, you are.” Laura held one of his hands and kissed his knuckles. Atop the old scars were crusted-over grazes and cuts. She smoothed her thumb over them.

“I don’t know how you manage to have such strength.” Cullen glared out at the rippling sea. “How you push everything aside because I am too weak to – I should be able to…”

It took Laura a long, quiet moment to understand. “I’m not afraid of the water anymore. I’m not ignoring anything right now, I just feel calmer.”

“Why?”

In lieu of an answer she pointed at the lower deck by the prow, where Ataashashaad stood like a statue. When Cullen shook his head tightly, _I don’t understand_ , she added, “I was useful.”

A pained expression chased away Cullen’s fatigue. “Laura – my love – you are _always_ -”

“Not always,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. She hadn’t brought him here to argue. “But I’m trying to learn that while it makes me feel better when I am, I don’t always have to be.”

He wrapped both arms around her. He wasn’t shivering anymore. They were both such a matched set, she thought to herself: they both pushed away their own pain to support the other.

“You don’t always have to be strong,” she murmured against his chest. “You don’t always have to be trying your hardest. I’ll support you so you can just rest.”

He said nothing, but he sniffed, and the top of her head grew chilly with dampness she knew was not sea-spray. When his breathing evened out again she nestled against his warm chest.

“Do you remember the lake you brought me to?” she whispered. “I remember how it smelled – of earth and grass and heady flowers and moisture. And even when we went back to Skyhold, my tunic smelled of the lake and it made me feel homesick for somewhere I’d only seen once.”

“I can take you back there,” Cullen said. His voice was low and rough.

“Do you smell the air tonight?”

She felt him laugh and could imagine the gentle smile on his face. “I thought it reminded me of something.”

“I love you,” Laura murmured, smelling the sea and the spring and Cullen, and after a moment she realised he had not answered back.

“Look,” he breathed, tapping her shoulder. She lifted her head and followed his gaze to the ship’s wake.

The sea was glowing. It wasn’t moonlight: clouds had scudded over the sky and shrouded them from the pale light. The lapping waves and churning froth glowed pale green with their own luminescence.

“What is it?” Laura asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

They watched the lights. Occasionally it wavered as if something were darting through the waters but otherwise it remained steady and soothing. It did not feel like danger, or like magic. It was beautiful, and Cullen’s breathing was slow and calm.

*

Hawke and Fenris announced they would disembark at Kirkwall over dinner: the first Cullen had managed to sit for, though he had stared at his hands and eaten very little. Laura had the distinct impression that they had waited to be able to tell Laura and Cullen at the same time, though they obviously didn’t mind the Bull and Ataashashaad’s absence abovedecks as they watched the Tevinter coast recede.

“I know Fuchsia – her Highness – would want to thank you personally,” Laura said softly.

“I think having the Champion’s hand in bringing Qunari to Ferelden isn’t going to help matters,” Hawke said with an unhappy twist to his mouth.

“As if you ever help matters,” Isabela said, and neatly dodged both Hawke’s thrown bread roll and Fenris’ sharp elbow.

“I think,” Fenris said with a slight slur from the wine, “that the people will be talking more about the Pirate Queen who rescues Qunari and throws them at neighbouring Kingdoms.”

Isabela smirked and began to reply, but Cullen stood up sharply enough to rattle the silverware with a stuttered apology.

“Please excuse me. No, my love,” he added as she started to join him. “Stay and eat. I need some air.”

She halted half out of her chair and watched him retreat. Sometimes she could tell what had set him off and other times she was left feeling as lost and unsure as he was.

Hawke reached over and touched her hand. His skin was warm, his palm calloused.

“I need to talk to him anyway,” he said, and stood, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Sometimes he just needs space.” Laura could not help the defensiveness in her voice, but she did not like it. “He might want to be left alone.”

Hawke and Fenris shared a long, laden look. Fenris gave the tiniest shake of his head, and Hawke rolled his eyes.

“They were always like this,” Isabela stage-whispered. “Eye-fucking across the table even when they were giving each other the silent treatment. Especially when. Honestly, it was a relief when they graduated to actual fucking.”

“That’s because you’re a voyeuristic pervert,” Fenris shot back without hesitation.

Isabela raised one eyebrow. “That’s just the way you like me, lover.”

“Oh, for – come on,” Hawke said, and pulled Isabela to her feet. “You’re coming with me. Well. Not to see Cullen. Just outside.”

That left Fenris and Laura alone at the table.

“It was me, you know,” Fenris said, and drained his goblet. He took a swig from the bottle of Orlesian red and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your husband. My tattoos.”

He was drunker than Laura had realised: he missed the table and fumbled with the bottle, barely saving it from a sharp tumble to the floor. His face was always stony, lined with weariness and irritation, but she understood the tension at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” Laura said softly. “I don’t think either of us have said it.”

“I doubt your husband feels much gratitude.” Fenris drank again as if to try to hide how much it hurt him to admit it. Laura thought of Cullen and imagined this tension and sadness and guilt – no. She did not need to imagine. She knew that it would pain Hawke to see Fenris like this, so she stood up and made her way to Fenris’ side of the table. 

She sat down next to him and said, “Thank you.”

He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “I couldn’t do nothing. Hawke would have been beside himself.”

Laura could not help but catch the weight in his voice, the odd tone, and then she remembered, in a wholly different light, how awkward and starstruck Hawke had been at first.

“I didn’t realise he thought of Cullen that way,” she said softly. She took the wine off Fenris and sipped at it, mostly to slow him down. She didn’t have a taste for it at the moment.

Fenris waved a ghostly-pale hand. “Who wouldn’t?”

Laura found herself grinning. “I’m glad we are all in agreement.”

He stole the bottle of wine from her and gave her a sceptical glare as he drank: a look that told her he would not be fazed by her. But he was blushing. “You saved Hawke, in the Fade. You brought him back.”

The change in topic stunned her speechless and she leant forward, head tilting quizzically to one side.

Fenris’ skin flushed darker. “It would be unjust for you to go unmentioned. That’s all.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw the heat in his eyes and her heart thumped hard in her chest. She thought of Isabela kissing Fenris, of her performing for Hawke, and of the blurred, hazy pleasure she had shared with Cullen and Isabela. Some lustful, hedonistic part of herself reached up and out and made herself speak.

“When Cullen is better. Happier. You and Hawke should visit us.”

Fenris blinked, as if Laura could not have said anything more unexpected if she had tried. His expression was still stormy but his eyes were lighter as he drained the bottle.

“I won’t hold you to that, Inquisitor,” he said, his lips curved into a sinful smirk. “But I will remember it.”

*

Later, when Cullen returned to their small room with the tension bled out from his shoulders, Laura slid his tunic off one shoulder and whispered into the candlelight.

“I may have taken liberties with our social calendar.”

He chuckled low and quiet. The sound made Laura tingle all over.

“That sounds worryingly like you finding trouble.”

“No trouble.” She lifted the cotton from his back and kissed his collarbone. “Only Hawke and Fenris.”

“So Trouble Incarnate, then,” Cullen drawled, but now she was aware of it she felt the minute tremor at the mention of Fenris’ name. 

“I invited them to come stay with us when you are well enough,” she said: innocuous enough but he caught the depth to her words, the desire in her eyes, and flushed brick red.

“I see,” he said, and coughed behind his fist. “And you would – you would want such an engagement?”

Despite his retreat from the dinner table, despite the tremor in his hands, he looked so happy. Whatever Hawke had said had lifted a part of his heart.

“I want _you_ ,” Laura said, and rested her hand atop his chest, sliding her palm up to the warm skin at his throat, then down to the scattered hair at his abdomen. “In every way that you would give me.”

He swept her close to him and kissed her, and carried her to the bed.

*

Laura leant against the prow as the ship approached the Storm Coast. The spray was bright and salty in her mouth and settled her riotous stomach. The floorboards creaked next to her: Ataashashaad stood tall and steady despite the rolling of the ship.

He said nothing. Laura relaxed into the silence. Her stomach clenched but she did not need to lean over the side again.

“You have changed,” Ataashashaad said in his grave, slow tones.

She flapped her stump at him. “A lot has happened.”

“Since we left Qunathras.”

She paused, and thought. “How do I seem different to you?”

He snorted. “I will not answer questions that are yours to solve.”

“So I should already know how you think I have changed?”

He growled under his breath and Laura could not help her laugh: it broke through the fog, and the sun glimmered on the froth at the shoreline, bursting through the clouds.

“You are not a _comedian_ ,” Ataashashaad said with a trace of fond irritation.

“I’m not an Inquisitor either,” she said, and the thought did not make her feel as fearful and sad as it normally did.

“I pity you.” Ataashashaad shook his head at the waves. “They stripped you of your title and purpose.”

“I gave it up. It was my choice.” She sighed heavily. “They situation was their doing but I chose to take my pieces off the table.”

A beat of silence. “And what of the one you called Solas?”

Sharp pain in her chest, the betrayal still a sting in her heart, but she did not push it away. The pain was natural. She would heal one day.

“He wants to destroy this world. But I like it. It’s got a lot of good things in it.” She glanced up at Ataashashaad’s stony visage. “He wants to unravel the Veil. Make magic different. Stronger. I figure that once all this is behind us, we’ll be able to put the treaty to good use.”

“That treaty was to stop Corypheus and his magic from destroying the world and your Veil,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Not to stop Solas and his magic from destroying the world and your Veil.”

“Well. Lots of Corypheus’ magic was from Solas, so technically it’s all the same problem. We’ll talk your superiors round.”

“Hmm,” he said, which was the closest to a yes he would give her. She hid her smile and remained by his side in the quiet.


	8. Denerim, Part II

When they got closer to Denerim a small cutter pulled up alongside Isabela’s ship. A lithe woman in an Inquisition Scout’s garb perched atop the mast and threw over a satchel with a jaunty salute.

Laura watched the cutter swerve and peel away into the open ocean with detached bemusement. One of the sailors brought her the bag and bowed as he did so.

“You don’t need to do that,” she told him kindly. “Not anymore.”

“Maybe so, Your Worship,” he said, and grinned with crooked wooden teeth.

She watched him leave, and sat down on the brace of a cannon to open it. There were several scrolls: Josephine’s hand, Fuchsia’s hand, Kremisius’. She set the last aside for the Bull and read the others, scribbling the decoded messages on scrap parchment. 

Josephine wrote that she humbly requested that Laura arrive separately to any new companions they brought. Laura felt a flash of guilt for leaving her in Denerim alone, unarmed, but she knew that pity was pointless. If anyone would thrive under such circumstances it would be Josephine.

Fuchsia’s letter was short and to the point. All it said was:

_Thank you. I’ll make it up to you._

*

In the end, she and Cullen slipped into Denerim the night after Ataashashaad was welcomed to the Royal Palace with a full parade. The Bull had begrudgingly accompanied him as a glowering retinue of one, and Isabela had ruffled Laura’s heir as she set them on the ship’s dinghy and said, “Wish I could bear you back in all your glory, but this will have to do.”

“Thank you,” Laura had said, misty-eyed and still nauseous, and Isabela had grimaced theatrically and slapped her on the bottom as she turned to climb down.

They stayed at a wayfarer’s inn a mile down the coast from the city, and in their salt-stained traveller’s garb they were in no danger of being recognised. Still, they spent most of their time alone in their room. Cullen was quiet and thoughtful as he brushed out her hair and plaited it in a crown against her scalp.

“Do you know what you’d like us to do once this is finished?” he asked her. The scrape of his fingertips against her neck made her skin sing with pleasure.

“I’d like to meet your family,” she said softly. “If you’re comfortable with that.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “I haven’t told them about us yet. The wedding. Perhaps if you’re there in person I’ll be more likely to survive breaking the news.”

“I haven’t told my family either,” she admitted. “But I’ll recruit Josephine for that.”

Cullen slid the hairpins into her braid and kissed the nape of her neck. “I don’t know where we’ll go after that, but so long as we’re together, I look forward to it.”

*

The third night they were in Denerim, one of the Inquisition’s old scouts, Cartwright, found them and helped them slip into the Royal Palace without attracting undue attention from the nosy courtiers. Their apartments were spotless, and with the curtains thrown back the spring sunset lit the rooms with gold and rosy amber.

Cullen’s dog was nowhere to be seen and she slipped her hand to clasp his.

“Josephine or Fuchsia will know where she got to.”

Behind them in the corridor a dog barked. Cullen lit up like a young child and tossed his bags on the low couch before running out of the apartment. 

Laura stopped and listened to the excited barks, Cullen’s running footsteps and happy laughter – and then Cullen exclaimed, “What in the Maker happened to her?”

Fuchsia slid through the open door. “Our dog impregnated your dog. Sorry.”

She enveloped Laura in a tight, lingering hug; over her shoulder Laura saw the dog waddle in with a distended stomach and a baffled, happy grin. She barked once at Laura as if saying hello.

Alistair followed the dog with his own, the creakingly old Mabari she’d overheard him call Barkspawn. “So, it turns out he’s not as decrepit as we thought. A lot’s changed in these couple of months.”

It sounded like he meant more than the pregnant dog, but she had no idea what he was referring to. There was a knock at the half-open door before she could ask: Josephine curtseyed elegantly and asked if she could trouble them.

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” Laura said quickly and beckoned her inside. “It’s good to see you.”

But the easy atmosphere was broken. Josephine was obviously distressed and her contribution to the conversation was tense and stilted. Fuchsia and Alistair were perfectly polite to her but Laura could tell they felt she was intruding, and Cullen had abandoned the entire venture to roll on the fireside rug with the dogs.

“My dear Josephine,” Laura said gently, “it’s finally a clear night. Could you show me your favourite spots on the battlements? By your leave, Your Majesty.”

Fuchsia inclined her head like a perfect Queen, then threw herself down on the carpet next to Cullen, giggling with delight.

“With thanks, Your Majesty,” Josephine said to Alistair, who shrugged and sat down on the couch, his feet pointed at the fire.

Josephine took Laura to a perfectly situated balcony: not so private so to arouse suspicion, but still guarded, but away from prying eyes. It faced the north side of the city and the ocean glittered with starlight.

“I am glad you are safe, Inquisitor,” she said with a mild yet chiding tone. “I have to admit to being concerned for your safety.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” Laura said quietly. She looked down at her hand and breathed in the crisp air: it was much better for her stomach. “I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“Of course it was not at all discomfiting for me to be left behind for two months, answering the Landsmeet’s curiosity as to your whereabouts.”

“It could have started a war. I didn’t want you to feel responsible.”

“It still might, and I still do.” The wind ruffled the voluminous folds in her sleeves and breeches. Her gaze was soft but unyielding, iron under her silks.

“Ataashashaad doesn’t want a war. And what he wants, he makes sure of.”

“I hope you’re right.” Josephine cast a critical eye over Laura and her brows crinkled with curiosity and confusion. Laura glanced down at herself and thought about how she must look: a blouse of pale blue silk with small ivory buttons, a fitted bodice embroidered with Rivaini flowers and pomegranates, trousers of buttery-soft leather trapped by knee-high boots that laced up to the knee.

“Your hair is exceedingly neat,” Josephine said evenly.

Laura felt herself blush. “Cullen did it for me.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. She caught a smile with her hands over her face. “Oh, Your Worship. Laura. I’m so glad.”

She had taken such pains to ask Josephine for help in ways that would not seem like help. She had worried so much about keeping her secrets, but everyone had known all along. The thought was oddly warming. Her friends knew her better than she knew herself.

“If you think you’re ready,” Josephine continued,” then when you leave Denerim I think I shall return to Antiva. My family’s accounts could do with more…direct oversight.”

Laura carefully took Josephine’s hands, awkwardly clasping to span her one hand across both of hers. “Josephine. Everything that I have accomplished in the last three years I owe in part to you. Thank you.”

Josephine blushed and ripped Laura’s hand tight. “It has been an absolute honour to have known and supported you, my dear friend.”

They watched the stars until the spring air turned too cool to stand, and then Josephine curtseyed before leading Laura back into the Palace.

“You and Commander Cullen will thrive, I am certain,” she said with a perfect little smile.

“At what?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I shall let the King and Queen inform you. It is their honour to bestow, after all.”

*

The next night there was a lavish feast in the Great hall, in honour of Ataashashaad – the new ‘Qunari Ambassador’ – and in honour of hope and peace. It had been quietly planned over several days: in the morning a servant delivered two bespoke and tailored outfits in the latest Fereldan styles. Laura had not worn a gown since the wedding but she could see why Fuchsia had chosen it for her. It was time to soften her look, to move away from the militaristic tunics of the Inquisition. She glittered with tiny quartz gems and silver thread, and at first she felt self-conscious about her bare shoulders and low neckline, but when Cullen flushed up to his hairline and pressed a fervent kiss between her breasts she felt much better about it.

Cullen himself was resplendent and dashing and every other word under the sun that Laura could ever think of. His high-collared jacket glimmered with charcoal-coloured gems and the burgundy ribbon details at his throat warmed the dark depths of his eyes.

“I’m so glad I married you,” she said, and the worry lines smoothed from his forehead. He offered her his arm.

“Shall we, my wife?”

*

Alistair and Fuchsia sat them in what was, to Laura at least, an outrageously prominent position: the top table, with Teyrn Cousland, his wife and Nora, and several other nobles Laura recognised as in their favour. Added to the mix and endearingly out of place were Ataashashaad and the Bull.

Teagan was not at the high table; when she glanced around the beautiful decorated hall she could not see him anywhere. When she caught Josephine’s eye across the hall she gave her a quizzical look and Josephine gave a serene, knowing smile.

Rabbit and Barkspawn lazed by the big fireplace, fat and happy. The food was glorious. Laura realised suddenly that her pale and scarred stump was on display for all to see but she couldn’t find it within herself to mind.

As the servants brought out a gigantic marzipan nug adorned with crystallised flowers, Alistair clambered to stand on the plush seat of his chair and yelled over the general hubbub of the feast: “Hey! Hey, I want to say something.” He was loud, but not loud enough; it took several long moments and an elderly noble with pronounced frown-lines yelling "Be quiet!" for the Hall to finally settle.

Alistair sketched a bow. "My thanks, Bann Wulff. So. As everyone knows, we've had a bit of upheaval in the old world of Ferelden politics. What a day that was, hey?"

He sounded breezy, entertained, but Fuchsia sat in her seat with iron in her gaze, and underneath the polite laughter there was a rippling murmur of discontent from a small number of nobles. Laura tried to remember the faces of those who had sat with Teagan, before, and thought that though some of them were sat in the Great Hall still, they were spread across different tables, no longer a cohesive political force.

"My dear late Uncle Eamon had always wanted Redcliffe to be in the hands of a noble who was compassionate, honourable and committed to the growth and stability of our lovely little country."

The amusement was gone, and his voice was all cold steel and sharp judgement.

"It's a shame, then, that he had to bequeath the Arling to Teagan, an opportunistic, cuckolder whose arrogance, desire to lord his fertility over me, and his personal thirst for power led him face-first into that awkward old attempted coup."

Laura gritted her teeth, kept her face impassive through the pain in her jaw as the nobles erupted into noise: some laughing, others outraged and shouting. The few Orlesians present looked affronted as they fluttered their fans in lieu of their masks. Ataashashaad glared at Alistair with flat disdain.

She watched as they shared a look: Alistair gave his old comrade a hapless grimace, a _what can you do_ , before he turned back to his courtiers and yelled, "Oh, come on. We all said worse at the Landsmeet."

"This is supposed to be a festival of peace!" someone yelled out from a lower table.

Alistair gave a theatrical shrug. "If you could let me finish my very unique, very peaceful speech?"

Next to Laura, Cullen shifted uncomfortably. She put her hand on his arm and squeezed; he settled, though he kept watching the King. Laura watched the Queen: her eyes shone and her mouth was set in an uncharacteristically hard line, but she glanced at Laura and gave the tiniest of small smiles.

"So Redcliffe needs a new Arl, one who's compassionate, et cetera, et cetera." He rolled his hand through the air, his signet ring glittering in the candlelight. "It's seen a fair amount of horrific drama, so I figure we need someone's who's good at making things happen."

Laura's hackles rose. She sat up straight and Cullen glanced over at her questioningly. She dared not breathe.

"I love a good elevation to nobility, too," Alistair continued, grinning.

But she was already nobility. She needed no elevation to accept an Arling, she only needed to want to, and she didn't want to, she didn't want to be lauded _again_ –

"Everyone give a big to _Ser_ Cullen Standton Rutherford: Fereldan, family man, general, warrior, and now Arl of Redcliffe!"

The applause was deafening. Cullen grabbed Laura's hand, hoarsely whispering something she could not hear. Alistair was still waving at Cullen, beckoning him closer, but he was trembling, licking his lips with shallow breaths; Bann Alfstanna slipped round the side of the table and subtly helped Cullen stand without drawing attention to herself. 

Laura did not stand. She squeezed Cullen's hand, kissed his knuckles and nudged him forward in a blessing. She watched as Alistair decorated him. Her heart felt too big for her chest. She placed a hand over her fluttering stomach and shared a look with Fuchsia, tearful and thankful and overwhelmed all at once. Fuchsia blew her a fondly mocking kiss.

The nobles were still applauding, but not for her: for her husband, who was pale and shaking and grinning ear-to-ear as Alistair pulled him into a bone-crushing hug and called him _brother_.


	9. Redcliffe - Four Months Later

Laura had been to Redcliffe before, after driving the Venatori out, when attempting to negotiate with Arl Teagan before the fateful events in Val Royeaux, but she had never been to the castle. It had been years, during which Arl Teagan had been busy trying to present Redcliffe as Ferelden's exotic, noble alternative Capital to mud-spattered, provincial Denerim. 

But still she could see Corypheus' lingering damage. The dock of the village gleamed shiny and new in the morning sun, the Chantry stood half-finished, and a burned-out windmill spoke volumes of Teagan’s misapplied priorities.

All this, Laura could see from the balcony of their bedroom suite. Cullen had picked a different suite to Teagan’s, one that overlooked the village rather than gorgeous countryside and wide, newly-paved trade roads.

(“Far be it from me to criticise the nobility,” Cullen had said, repeatedly.

“You _are_ nobility, my dear,” Laura had reminded him with growing amusement, carding her fingers through his hair.)

Laura’s stomach clenched again and she bent over the basin placed by the window expressly for this purpose. Her mind slid away from the task at hand; she was distantly happy to have instructed her new chambermaids to continue braiding her hair back from her head so she needed not worry about holding it back herself.

Her maidservant, Kaitlyn, whisked the basin from her when she was done, and nudged the goblet of mint and ginger-infused tea in her direction.

“It helps, trust me,” Kaitlyn said, and rested her warm hand on Laura’s shoulder before bustling out.

Laura swilled the tea, spat some of it out, and took the rest to the bay window. Cullen was with the tradesmen, today, attempting to resolve disputes with Orlesian merchants. She had her own duties to attend to, once her stomach settled: budgetary paperwork that someone else had always taken care of before, both in the Trevelyan household, and in the Inquisition, but that now Laura took on as the woman of her husband’s house.

She never thought that stepping back from leadership would suit her. But she liked it.

A tap at the door. Kaitlyn bringing her breakfast that she would no doubt hate, but be forced to eat.

“Leave it on the table, please,” she called out, and closed her eyes against the morning glare.

The door opened and clicked shut, but there was no rattle of silverware, no gentle gossip from the kitchen staff that Kaitlyn had, at first, thought beneath Laura’s notice but now dutifully reported as thoroughly as any of Divine Victoria’s spies.

A rustle of fabric, a shadow across Laura’s vision, and she opened her eyes to see Queen Fuchsia sitting opposite her in the bay window. She glowed in the morning light, her hair coiled like liquid gold, her eyes sparkling, her rough-hewn traveller’s tunic fitted close, except below her belt–

Laura paused, glanced back up. Her mouth was dry, but she could not help herself smiling.

Fuchsia punched her hard in the arm. “I _knew_ it. I had this weird dream with Morrigan in it and she said that though I’d given up hope, someone was still hoping for me, and then I missed one, then two, then Andraste’s tits, _three_ and it’s still _in me_ and it’s healthy and you–”

Queen Fuchsia Cousland Theirin, the most competent woman in Thedas, burst into tears and bent her forehead against Laura’s stomach.

Laura’s child kicked her Queen in the forehead, which was par for the course.

Fuchsia laughed, and kissed the bump, and carried on crying, and Laura pushed aside the scratchy guilt at feeling her grief when she and Cullen had conceived purely by accident, and she pulled her Queen up and pulled her into a rough embrace.

“Hugging is really hard with these equipped,” Fuchsia said, hiccupping, and pressed her face against Laura’s neck.

“I’m really happy for you,” Laura whispered. “I think it’s an outrage that Morrigan didn’t step in sooner.”

“I’ll still invite her to the baby’s birthday parties. Don’t want her getting cursed.”

“Her?” Laura asked quietly, and Fuchsia shrugged delicately, leaning back and composing herself.

“Just an instinct.” She looked out of the window, and sighed. “So do I get Teagan’s old room, or can I set that on fire and you give me another one?”

Laura blinked at her, and let her continue at her own pace. 

“Any longer at court and someone’s going to notice this,” Fuchsia said, pointing meaningfully at her torso. “It’s a miracle on top of the first one that no one’s noticed it this far, but I think everyone’s assumed it’s never going to happen at this stage, so they’ve stopped looking. But anyway. I don’t – I still worry, if it goes wrong…”

The last thing she, or Alistair, would need, would be the disruption of a lost heir at court.

“Harvest babies,” Laura said softly. “You can have her here and bring her back to court with the harvest. And it makes sense Alistair would need to check the trade routes before the Autumn. He’ll need to come here anyway.”

“You’re so smart,” Fuchsia said with a razor-sharp, sun-warm smile.

“I’ve learned from the best,” Laura shot back.

“I don’t even know who you’re aiming that at,” she said. “I’m so tired, I can’t even think straight. So was it the solstice for you too?”

Once Laura had realised what was happening, she had counted back. Feeling sick on the way home to Denerim, even though her anxiety was gone; the bone-deep tiredness just out of Qunathras unlike anything else, the metallic taste in her mouth she had put down to worry and fatigue; the first time she and Cullen had joined together in months, after Isabela had given them the final push.

Isabela had not been needed again. They still discussed her occasionally, blushing and stammering like virgins. Isabela would be very happy, and undoubtedly unsurprised, to know one day that she was no longer needed, but certainly still wanted. 

“Isabela,” she said simply, and Fuchsia burst out laughing.

“Why am I surprised? She did it to us too. I think she has a thing for vitally pivotal political figures.”

“Has she ever met Empress Celene?”

Fuchsia gaped at her in mock horror. “Let us prevent such a meeting from ever occurring, or we’d never get Isabela back.”

Laura swallowed the last of her caution. “I’m sure Hawke and Fenris would fetch her back for us.”

Her suspicions were proved right, that there was intimacy across these three families across Ferelden and the Free Marches, Isabela overseeing all with terrifying poise: Fuchsia slanted a sly look at her and quirked her lips up.

“It’s a pity I have to be so discreet at the moment,” she said, and patted her stomach proudly.

Laura thought of her agents, seeking leverage against Solas’ desperation, the life inside her. The spark in Cullen’s eyes. His sister and nieces and nephews were visiting for the summer solstice; either they’d be happy to swear to secrecy, or Fuchsia would have her own fun with some sort of improbably successful disguise.

“I don’t think you need to worry, my dear,” Laura said softly. “We have all the time we need ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
